Blood and Wine Are Red
by Sameuspegasus
Summary: Dean, Sam, and a newly human Castiel head to New York to investigate a cursed painting. They walk right into the White Collar team's undercover operation. Post season 6 AU SPN/ season 3ish WC.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Not for profit. I have no affiliation with Supernatural or White Collar.**

"No way, Dean," Sam protested, turning the laptop toward him, "We are not going all the way to New York just because someone's stealing art."

"Come on, Sam. Every owner of this painting 'mysteriously' kicks it as soon as they display it. The last guy was found in a room locked down by electronic security. Apparently he shot himself in the head three times. Classic cursed object, or maybe even another spirit trap in a painting."

"Why are you pushing this so hard? You hate New York."

Dean sighed. "Why are you so against it? I just think we need to get back to basics, you know. Work a nice simple case while Cas recovers."

Sam shut the laptop harder than he'd intended. "He wasn't _sick_, Dean, he was power crazed and playing God, and now he's sulking because the real God came back and took away the souls."

"I get it, Sam. He did a bad thing, and I'm pissed at him too. But he was trying to do the right thing. Maybe you would know something about that."

"Why are you making excuses for him? You weren't this reasonable with me."

"I'm learning from experience."

In the end, Sam agreed to go to New York, because Dean was getting that look he got sometimes when he just wanted everyone to get along. But he made Cas sit in the backseat.

XXXXXX

Peter handed out files. He tapped the enlarged photograph taped to his board, making sure everyone was paying attention. "Who knows this painting?"

Neal looked up from his file. "_Rivers in Flood_. J.P. Collins. Why would someone steal that?"

"That is the ugliest painting I've ever seen," Jones contributed. "And why _Rivers in Flood_? I don't see any rivers."

"It's a metaphor," said Neal, "And you've got a point about it being ugly, but that's not what I meant. It's not worth anything. Why would you go to the trouble of stealing it for less than two thousand dollars? It would probably cost that to steal."

"Nevertheless, it's been stolen. Repeatedly. And every new owner mysteriously dies within a few days of displaying it, and the painting always disappears." Peter paused to check everyone was following. "The painting has just turned up on our radar again after nearly two years. It's about to go on display in a small gallery that opens next week..."

"And you want someone to go undercover as a buyer," Neal filled in smugly.

"Actually, no. It just so happens that the gallery is looking for a salesperson. We need someone to get the job."

"I'll go put on my interviewing hat," said Neal.

Peter rolled his eyes. "Interview is this afternoon. We have a résumé and identity prepared for you. Jones, Diana, you'll be with me in the van. Neal will plant a bug while he's interviewing, just in case he doesn't get the job –"

"Why Peter, I'm astounded by your lack of faith..."

"The rest of you, I need you to run the names of the gallery owner and all current employees. Compare with previous owners and see if anything pops. I want links, people. This is not a coincidence."

"Where are we going for lunch?" Neal asked Peter as they stepped into the elevator.

"_I_ am having lunch with Elizabeth. Don't you have someone else you can con into buying you lunch?

Neal widened his eyes. "Peter, you wound me."

"Oh fine, you can come. But only because I know you've just stolen my wallet."

Something strange was going on at lunch. Peter left the table twice, once to get napkins for El and once to use the bathroom, and both times when he got back Neal and El were looking shifty. Neal had that mischievous look of coiled excitement about him, the one he got in the middle of a con when he thought he was being clever. El was her usual lovely self, but she had that secretly excited look about her, like she was planning something. They had their heads together and stopped whispering abruptly when he returned. _Hmm, suspicious._

The rest of lunch was spent going over the details of Neal's cover, with El offering useful little embellishments and suggestions. She'd worked at galleries before setting up as an event planner, and had lots of hints about what a gallery would be looking for in a salesperson. Neal was going in as a fairly recent art history graduate, with deep knowledge and enthusiasm for art but not too much experience. A new, small gallery would be suspicious of someone with too much experience. Anyone who'd worked anywhere better known would not apply at such an unknown gallery unless for some reason they could not get a job anywhere better.

The interview went well. The gallery owner was a woman, which always helped where Neal was concerned. She was mid-forties and well preserved. Monthly Botox treatments probably helped with that. Neal took his hat off to her as he sat down. He was careful to twinkle and flirt during the interview, but not too much – he didn't want her to think he wasn't interested in the job, or worse, that he was pretending to be interested in her to get the job. He carefully planted the bug under her desk, which was placed tastefully and inconspicuously in the corner. As she gave him a tour, he showed off his knowledge of styles and colour use, but pretended not to be familiar with too many of the paintings. They weren't well known, many of them painted by emerging artists, and to appear too familiar with them would be suspicious.

At the end of the interview, he knew he was in, because she smiled at him as widely as her frozen face would allow, and told him to call her Melinda, and expect a phone call about the job. The wait was just a formality. He tipped his hat to her, gave his most winning smile, and made his way out to Peter in the van.

XXXXXX

Castiel looked around the hotel room. It was unusually clean. Dean had got them a room in Manhattan, instead of one of the cheaper places in the less upmarket parts of the city. He said it was because he'd just come into some good money in a poker game, but Cas privately thought it was because Dean didn't want to use public transport, and this hotel meant they could walk to the gallery with the cursed object.

They went to speak with the relatives of the previous owner of the painting that afternoon. Cas was unclear on why Dean was so insistent on his coming. He was terrible at interviews, never really understanding appropriate times to lie or reveal the truth. And if a vengeful spirit or a curse should make itself known, he doubted he would be much use. He was human now, and the loss of his angelic might had served him badly. But Dean had managed to at least partially forgive him for his monumental error of judgement, and so for the moment he would do as his friend asked and stand silently behind Dean and Sam as they asked questions, and ignore Sam's glares and open distrust while he did it.

The man they visited was surprised to see them, and could not fathom why the FBI would be interested in reopening a case apparently solved two years previously. He was also very angry, because he was in prison for a crime he hadn't committed.

Castiel stood with the Winchesters as they studied the man through a thick plastic partition – glass was too dangerous if it was broken – while the man raged at them through a telephone and demanded a lawyer. He was in his early thirties, with prematurely grey hair and heavy bruising on the left side of his face. He wore glasses with thick rectangular frames that Dean referred to scornfully as 'trendy'.

"Oh, now the case is being reopened? It's a bit late now. I've been in prison for more than a year!" The man said angrily, "Do you know what happens to guys like me in prison? When you find the evidence that proves I didn't murder my brother, I'm going to sue your asses for all you're worth. And the NYPD! And the justice system!" He carried on in that vein for some time.

"I'm sorry you feel you have been treated unfairly, Mr Winterbourne," Sam told him, in a voice that reminded Cas of the old Sam, the one from before Castiel had accidently raised him from the cage without his soul. Cas deeply regretted the mistake, but it _had _been a mistake, even if Sam was disinclined to believe that. Sam continued, "We were not involved in your case, but in the course of another investigation, new evidence has come to light. It involves a painting that went missing at the time of your brother's murder."

The prisoner chuckled bitterly. "I told Marc not to buy that. It wasn't even worth anything. It looked like it was painted by a four-year-old."

"Was there anything you noticed about the painting? Anything strange?"

The man looked at them strangely. It was the expression that said he thought they were crazy, or at least not quite normal. Cas recognised it because it was directed at him a lot.

"It was ugly, if that's what you mean. The thing gave me the creeps. _Rivers in Flood_? More like _Rivers of Blood_. And really overpriced. Marc only bought it because he heard the last owner got murdered for it. He was like that."

Cas wasn't sure why somebody would wish to own a painting because all its owners had died mysteriously, but then he often had difficulty understanding humans. Perhaps it was like Dean's attachment to the movie _Poltergeist_, and the man was drawn to the mystery surrounding the artwork's origin.

"You know. Too much money. Wanted things for the notoriety."

"Did you ever see it move?" Dean asked.

Cas saw Sam elbow him, but wasn't sure why. It had seemed like a perfectly appropriate question to him.

"No, I never saw it move," The prisoner said, the strange look on his face intensifying, "What, are you crazy?"

"We have reason to believe important information is hidden in a hologram within the painting," Sam covered, "Thank you for your time, sir. Oh, one last question: Do you know the name of the person who sold the painting to your brother?"

"I told this all to the police last time."

"Humour me."

"It was a private sale – someone Clark. Joseph, maybe."

"Thank you, sir. We'll keep you updated."

Sam exploded when they got back to the motel. His temper was short these days, even though the wall had been restored in his head. Castiel thought his presence might be a source of tension, but he couldn't bring himself to leave even though he knew he didn't deserve to be there.

"God, Dean!" Sam said, "Remember subtlety? What kind of question was that? No wonder Cas is so bad at interviews."

"Well we got an answer, didn't we? And now we know who he bought it from, and we can go to the gallery opening and see if it was the same person. If it's never moved for the new owners either, it's probably not a spirit contained in the painting, and if the seller was the same, he might be controlling it. Using it for some kind of vendetta."

"I still think it's just an art thief."

"You heard the guy, Sam. The painting's not worth anything. Why would people murder for it?"

"Just let me do the talking tomorrow."

"Fine."

They had forgotten Cas was there again. He felt empty and cold, and curled up under his blankets, pretending to sleep even though it was still light outside.

XXXXXX


	2. Chapter 2

Neal started work the next morning. It was just him and the owner there; the gallery was too small to require any more staff. It was one rectangular room, painted plain white, with artful lighting around the walls. The paintings were spaced too closely for Neal's taste, but then even the most careful arrangement of the works could not turn them into what Neal would classify as art. His tastes were varied and he could appreciate the beauty in all types of art, but most of these were not only ugly but also purposeless. None of them were worth much. The most valuable item was _Rivers in Flood_, which was for sale at $3500. Neal could only assume the price had been pushed up because of the history of the piece, because closer examination did not improve it.

There was no spectacular opening. The owner, Melinda Cartwright, had spent all her savings putting the collection together; she could not afford advertising, and was relying on word of mouth to gain business. Personally, Neal thought it was a terrible business strategy, particularly with paintings this bad, but it did work in the FBI's favour. Without a large number of visitors, it would be much easier to identify and question suspects while maintaining his cover and background noise on the bug would be reduced.

The first customers came in shortly after the doors opened. Neal pasted on his 'selling things' smile and moved to speak to them. They were an elderly couple and unimpressed by the artwork. Neal discounted them as suspects in the murders and thefts because they would be physically incapable of pulling off an escape of that kind. They were just tourists, who didn't particularly like modern art. Neal spent twenty minutes chatting to them about the city and they walked away with one of the smaller pieces and slightly confused expressions.

Melinda beamed.

Nothing notable occurred until mid-morning. They had a few more customers, most of whom spent less than five minutes skirting the edges of the room looking faintly disgusted and left quickly. Even Neal's superior selling skills weren't enough to get people to buy.

Neal was in the middle of presenting his sales pitch to a middle-aged woman in a business suit when the man walked in. He was enormous, wearing a decent suit - not as bad as Peter's, not as nice as Neal's – and he was definitely not an FBI agent. There was no time to intercept him before he flashed his badge at Melinda and began asking questions. Neal got rid of his customer as quickly as he could, and lurked close enough to listen in without being too obvious about it.

Neal pretended to scratch his ear and spoke into his watch: "Peter, there's a guy asking about the painting. He's got a badge but he's definitely not a fed."

"We're recording from the bug. Let it play out, I want to see where it goes. We'll put a tail on him when he leaves."

Neal watched the conman work. He was good. Despite his size, he was making Melinda comfortable. He was firm, but not intimidating. None of the questions he asked would make anyone suspect he was not who he said he was. He was very interested in _Rivers in Flood_.

"We're attempting to contact the artist for questioning in an investigation. Have you ever met or been in contact with him?"

That was interesting. Not the usual questions a thief would ask. Maybe this wasn't about the painting after all; maybe it was about the artist. It would make sense if someone was stealing the painting as some kind of revenge against the artist, rather than for the money.

"Alright, well could you give me the name of the person who sold it to you?"

Neal missed Melinda's reply because at that moment, a customer approached him. Two customers, in fact.

His radar pinged immediately: firstly, nobody would voluntarily buy one of these paintings, and secondly, because they looked wrong. It was no surprise that two men would be looking for a painting together; this was New York, after all. But these didn't look like New Yorkers, and they didn't look like they were interested in art. The man who approached him was a big guy. He was wearing work boots, and not ironically. As he followed him to the painting, Neal caught the outline of a gun tucked into the back of his jeans. The second guy was wearing a trench coat in mid-summer, and was staring at _Rivers in Flood_ like he didn't quite get the point.

The man in the trench coat said: "We are interested in purchasing this painting." He turned and focussed his stare on Neal. It made him intensely uncomfortable.

"I'm happy to help you with that," Neal smiled at him, "Was there anything you wanted to know before I ring it up?"

"Does it move?" The guy asked.

Neal was starting to think they were just routine crazies.

The big guy clapped his friend on the shoulder and laughed nervously. "He means can we move it easily when we buy it. Don't you Eddie." The last bit was said with gritted teeth.

Eddie turned his head to look at Work-boots. "My name is n- oh. Yes, that's what I meant."

"It's very portable," Neal told them. From the corner of his eye, he saw the not-an-agent leaving.

Peter spoke in his ear. "We've got a tail on him, stay where you are."

Neal pretended to scratch his ear again. "It's nice to see some people so interested in _Rivers in Flood_. Is there anything about it that really sparked your _interest_?" he said, hoping Peter would get the hint.

"Why are you speaking into your watch?" Not-Eddie asked curiously.

Work-boots laughed again and leaned in close to his friend to whisper something that sounded suspiciously like: "Stop talking, he's about to call the crazy farm."

"We were really interested in its history. Is there anything you can tell us about that? I read an article that said it was cursed?"

"I can assure you this painting is not cursed."

"Good. Not that we believe in curses."

"Not at all."

"We definitely don't believe in curses."

"Is there anything else you want to ask?" Neal worked to keep his face pleasantly blank.

"How do you explain the deaths around it?" Work-boots continued.

"A string of unfortunate coincidences. If your security is up to standard, you should have no problem."

"Do you have a list of previous owners, like... provenances?" Work-boots didn't seem like he used the word often. Not a collector, then, and not a professional art thief who lulled people into a false sense of security by giving off an air of eccentricity.

"What is the painting of?" The man in the trench coat turned back to stare at the painting again.

Neal began his sales spiel. It was all completely invented, of course. He had no idea what the painting was meant to be of. Nothing in it was recognisable as an object, person or landscape. "It's an abstract representation of the inner landscape of the artist during a time of conflict and turmoil in his life, see the heavy presence of red and black-"

"Inner landscape of the artist?" Work-boots looked incredulous. Ok, so it wasn't his best arty bull speech, but it had been enough to sell the painting that morning.

"What was the turmoil related to?" The trench coated man did not turn around.

"Er... he prefers to keep that private." Neal kicked himself for not anticipating the question, but smiled widely. Good recovery.

"So he's alive, then? Is there a way we can contact him? We'd really like more... insight... into this delightful painting." Work-boots said, completely failing to convince Neal he was actually interested in the meaning behind the painting.

"I'm afraid he cannot be contacted. He works under a pseudonym. Nobody knows his true identity."

"Oh. What is it painted with?" Work-boots changed tack.

His friend leaned very close to the painting, almost touching it. He frowned. "This looks like real blood."

Work-boots leaned in to look. "Wow, that's really realistic. And not super-disturbing at all."

"I can assure you, it's not real blood," Neal said firmly, making a mental note to bring Peter in to look during his lunch break. He had noticed that morning that some of the red was not a paint he could recognise by eye, but he was not exactly familiar with dried blood used in artwork. Peter would be more likely to know if it was.

"Are you interested in purchasing the painting, sir?" He asked, trying to draw their attention away from the piece.

"How much?"

"For a painting with such vigour and such a history, $3500 is an excellent price, sir."

"I don't have that kind of cash on me... when do you close?"

Neal told him. As they left, he saw Work-boots taking note of the security cameras. Definitely casing the place.

XXXX

When Neal's lunch break came around, he went out to the surveillance van to talk to Peter. Peter was alone in the van. He'd set Jones tailing the fake FBI agent, while Diana was following the two men Neal had been talking to.

"Do you think they're after it?" Peter asked.

"Maybe," Neal said. "The bigger guy was casing the place. I'm not sure they're responsible for the previous thefts and murders, though. They were asking lots of questions about it. Work-boots seemed genuinely disturbed by the possibility that it was painted in blood."

"And the other one?"

"He was hard to read. I'm about ninety percent sure he's an alien."

Peter went in to inspect the painting. It really was beyond him how anyone could actually want a picture like this hanging in their living room. Give him a nice landscape any day. Or even a portrait. Anything that needed an explanation by the artist wasn't art in his book. The jagged lines and violent swirls of black and greys and reds gave him the creeps. And the guys Neal had been talking to were right. The red looked a lot like real blood.

When he got back to the van, one of the radios was crackling into life, and Diana's voice came through. "The two guys I've been tailing are just hanging around outside the gallery. I think they might be watching the van."

"Diana, we need you to distract them while we drive somewhere and let Neal out without breaking his cover."

Peter crawled inelegantly into the front seat just as Jones radioed in. He crawled back over. "What have you got, Jones?"

"Godzilla checked into a hotel under the name Samuel Angus. He was with two other men, both shorter than him. One was wearing a trench coat. Angus used a credit card. I'm having it run now, but I think it's a false identity."

Peter smiled to himself. It wasn't often the crooks made it easy for them.

XXXX

After leaving the gallery, Dean and Cas took a detour through the park. Dean didn't want to go back to the hotel so soon. It was too hot, and there were too many people. He could feel the buildings closing in on him. But this was turning into exactly what he'd wanted it to be. A simple case, just like the old days, before everything went bad. The blood in the painting meant it was probably a spirit attached to the painting – possibly the artist himself. Even if it was some sort of curse or spell, burning it would probably solve the problem. He'd even thought Cas kind of seemed to be enjoying himself, which hadn't happened much since he'd been made human.

Dean bought them both ice-creams from a stand. "Take your coat off, Cas. You must be boiling."

Cas didn't take his coat off, but he did half-heartedly lick his plain vanilla ice-cream, so Dean put that down as a win. "The man in the gallery was very shiny," Cas said.

It was rather an odd way of putting it, but Dean knew what he meant. Not literally shiny, but kind of overly smooth. A bit like Dean was when he was trying to convince people he was law enforcement. And too nicely dressed. The guy had a freakin' diamond-studded tie-pin. Dean hadn't been able to take his eyes off it the whole time they were interviewing him. But then, maybe all arty people were like that. Dean was first to admit he knew nothing about art. Except that he preferred his without so much blood in it.

"Do you think he's involved?" Dean asked.

"Possibly. I think we should watch him."

They finished their ice-cream before retracing their steps and loitering inconspicuously at an outside table of an outrageously overpriced cafe across the road and two doors down from the gallery. Cas watched the door of the gallery, while Dean kept his eye on the suspiciously non-descript van parked down the street.

"Hey Cas," Dean said awkwardly, turning to look at him, "I know I don't really say it, but I'm really glad you're back."

Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Cas' lips twitch into a tiny smile.

"Dean," said Cas.

"Yeah?"

"The van is leaving."

XXXXX


	3. Chapter 3

Sam was being followed. He could feel eyes on his back all the way back to the hotel, and now there was a guy asking questions about him at the reception desk. Sam hid as well as he could behind a pillar while the guy flashed his badge at the receptionist. _Sorry, Dean. Guess we're switching motels._ He slipped up to their room, grabbed the two laptops and the weapons bag, wiped the surfaces quickly, and hustled out of there. The cop was still in the lobby, accepting a key card from the receptionist. Sam slipped down the ground floor hallway, looking for an open door. There wasn't one. He cursed the invention of electronic locking, and took the only available way out – the fire exit.

The alarm blared the second he opened it, and he knew there was no point in trying to sneak around now. He ran, slipping down an alley between buildings, winding through back streets until he saw a crowded shopping street. Pulling t-shirt and jeans he'd stuffed in the weapons bag out, he hid behind the enormous garbage bin of an Italian restaurant to change. He tossed his suit in the garbage, strapped a knife to each ankle, stuffed a gun into his waistband, shotgun and salt rounds into his laptop bag, shoved the weapons bag and Dean's laptop behind the garbage, and walked calmly out into the busy street.

He hailed a cab, telling him a random address. From the cab, he texted Dean one word: _cops_. When the driver pulled up at the destination, Sam thanked him politely, paid him, and waited until he'd moved off before he began to double back to the part of town where Dean and Cas were still staking out the gallery.

XXXX

Neal climbed out of the van on the next street over from the gallery. Doffing his hat to Peter, he made his way back to the gallery to spend the afternoon honing his powers of persuasion by getting people to buy terrible paintings. Practice never hurt.

As he rounded the corner, Elizabeth darted out of a clothing boutique. "How's it going?" she asked, smiling infectiously at him, "Do you think it'll be ready in time?"

"Of course," he replied. The painting he was doing for Peter's birthday was going well. It was an original, and he was quite proud of it. "Just a few finishing touches to go."

"I've found a nice frame for it. Can you come to the store and tell me what you think? Maybe tomorrow?"

Neal agreed to try to come in his lunch break the next day, and broke away from her to enter the gallery, while she went on to talk to Peter before heading back to work.

Neal had not been back at work long when Sara turned up for a surprise visit. He kissed her on the cheek, and allowed her to make fun of him for working somewhere that so clearly offended his sense of beauty. With a surprising thrill of nerves, he invited her to Peter's birthday dinner. She accepted with a flirtatious smile that she tossed over her shoulder as she left.

Neal's afternoon went well after that. He had a string of impressionable customers who responded well to his sales pitch, selling two pieces on the spot to a pretentious young businessman who wanted 'art that made a statement', and receiving several orders not to sell pieces to anyone else until people came back with someone for a second opinion.

Another two people asked questions about _Rivers in Flood_, but neither seemed suspiciously interested. One was an art student, while the other was a well-dressed man in his mid-thirties who seemed mostly interested in why the price was so high for such an ugly painting.

The idea hit him a little before closing, and he wondered why he hadn't thought of it before. Every time the painting was stolen, the trail was lost for at least six months while the thief found a buyer. Clearly, the only way to hold onto the original and keep Melinda safe was to paint a reproduction and hang it in place of the real thing. They would even label it as a reproduction – Peter tended to get upset about forgeries even when they were being used for good. The thief would see the sign saying the painting was a reproduction and the original was kept elsewhere due to the history of violence surrounding the painting, and would come after it at the FBI building, where of course he would be caught. It was brilliant. And _Rivers in Flood_ was not exactly a masterpiece. Neal was pretty sure he could replicate it in a couple of hours, and they could have the paintings swapped by morning.

Peter was on board with the idea, and had a probie buy art supplies and bring them in for Neal through the back entrance. Copying the painting took surprisingly little time, after the gallery closed for the night. It consisted mostly of paint dashed on the canvas in thick, haphazard swirls as quickly as possible, with apparent disregard for any form of pattern. The reds didn't look quite right, but it would serve its purpose. It didn't have to be exact, anyway, just close enough to draw the thief in until the FBI got there.

Neal replaced the original with his still slightly wet reproduction, and he and Melinda left by the back way with an FBI escort, being sure to set the alarm.

XXXX

Cas sipped his water and continued to watch the gallery as Dean drank his third cup of coffee. They watched the shiny man walk down the street towards the gallery, a pretty brunette on his arm. They smiled broadly at each other as he went into the gallery and she continued down the street. Cas couldn't help feeling a pang of something he couldn't identify when he saw the way they looked at each other and realised he had never had someone look at him that way. Like they genuinely liked him, without an undercurrent of despair and loss. Not even Dean.

He looked at Dean, who was looking sad again. Cas thought the woman might be reminding him of Lisa, but he didn't know how to help, so he said nothing.

They sat in silence. Cas kind of liked it. Sitting in silence with Dean.

When the red-haired woman in the expensive clothing kissed the shiny man on the cheek and left the gallery half an hour later, Dean let out a snort.

"This guy's living a charmed life," Dean commented.

"Suspiciously charmed," Cas agreed.

They continued their stakeout. Cas wasn't hungry, but he ate a piece of quiche because Dean said it looked weird if you sat at a cafe for hours and didn't eat. It was surprisingly tasty.

"We should find his apartment," Dean said, when the young man in the suit left with two paintings, "I bet there's a bunny strung up in there somewhere."

"Powerful spell-work could control a spirit associated with the blood in the painting," Cas said, "I think we should take care of the painting first, though."

"Burning it should destroy the spirit and buy us some time to deal with the witch."

They didn't get the chance to see where the shiny man lived, because the cafe closed soon after that and the waitress made them, along with the only other customer, a woman wearing headphones and pretending to read a magazine, leave.

The woman in the headphones followed them discreetly when they left. They kept an even pace in order to not look suspicious, and lost her in the park when they cut through a copse of trees and split up, meeting two streets over.

They met Sam at their new motel just as the sun was going down.

"We have to get this done tonight," Sam said, "The cops must be staking out the gallery. They've got my face and they probably have our prints now. We salt and burn and then we leave and go underground."

XXXX

Peter made sure the original painting was securely locked away in an evidence room in the FBI building before heading back to the surveillance van. Neal's copy was securely in place, and Neal, Jones and Diana were all waiting in the van.

"The credit card was a fake," Jones informed them. "One thing's for sure, Samuel Angus is not his real name. He left some belongings in the room when he left. Prints are being run now."

"Uh huh," said Peter, "Diana, did you learn anything about the two you were tailing?"

"They've been on the run from law enforcement before, I'm sure of it. They gave me the slip in the woods. Just disappeared. I don't think they're our guys, though."

"What makes you say that?"

"Firstly, they were more interested in Neal than in the painting, and secondly, they were talking about needing to break into the gallery to burn the painting, which doesn't fit our thief's M.O. at all."

"Why would they want to burn the painting?" Peter queried.

"I can think of a few reasons," Neal quipped, "Why were they watching me?"

"I couldn't get close enough to hear every word, but Work-boots said something about you having dead bunnies. These guys were _not _normal."

"That's a little creepy."

"I don't like these guys," Peter said, "Even if they aren't our original thief, they're dangerous. If they interfere tonight, we take them in."

The computer beeped at them. Peter turned to read the report on the prints. "Oh crap," he said.

"Do you want to elaborate?" Neal prodded.

"Well, they're not our art thieves, but it's not good news. Now apparently we'll have our murderous art thief converging with the Winchester brothers tonight."

"Who are the Winchester brothers?" Neal asked.

The three FBI agents stared at him.

"What? I don't know _every_ criminal in America."

"Dean and Sam Winchester. They were reported to have died in an explosion several years ago. They aren't really your type of criminal. They tend more towards extreme violence and grave desecration. Their list of crimes covers several pages, and that's only the ones they could be linked with. They've been known to run a few good cons, though. Mostly multiple counts of low grade fraud and impersonation of law enforcement. And Dean appears to have faked his own death. Twice. Took Sam with him the second time."

Neal paled. "So I was talking to murderers today? And I didn't pick up on it?"

"Oh no," said Peter, "Just the one. Dean is the only one who was ever wanted for murder. The other guy with him is apparently one James Novak. He went missing not long after the brothers were reported to have died, after suffering an apparent psychotic break. His wife told the police he believed angels were speaking to him."

"Oh, that makes me feel so much better."

"Novak's not a known associate. He must have joined up with them after the explosion. Interesting how he's changed the dynamic."

"I can't believe I couldn't tell he was a murderer. I don't like this plan anymore, Peter."

"Don't feel too bad about it," Peter said, "They're smart con-men. And ruthless. No-one's ever figured out how they faked Dean's death the first time. He was shot dead at the crime scene and identified with fingerprinting."

"Why weren't you on the team? I thought they would have wanted the best."

"I was busy chasing you."

"I bet you were glad you got me. I'm sure they've never sent champagne to a surveillance van."

"Anyway, the agent chasing them thought they might be vigilantes. And they believe in monsters. There's a statement where Dean blames a ghost for a murder he was arrested for, and a shapeshifter for the others."

"So they're insane."

Diana broke in. "Dean and Novak were certainly doing a good impression of it with some of the things they were talking about. They seemed to think a ghost was attached to the painting and burning it would stop it killing people."

"Sam was always said to be subordinate to his brother, but from what I saw today I don't think he is," Jones said, "He obviously wasn't relying on his brother's instructions when he gave us the slip. And he's bulked up like crazy since his last sighting."

"Great," said Neal, "So we have a group of violently insane people, at least one of whom is a murderer, attempting to burn a painting they believe to be evil inside a gallery we have set up to be burgled by a separate thief who is also a murderer. And we've taken away the painting they're after?"

"In short, yes."

"Well, this should be a fun night." Neal sighed.

The computer pinged again. The back door of the gallery had been opened.

"Let's move," said Peter.

XXXX


	4. Chapter 4

"Stay in the van!" Peter ordered Neal. "If it's not our art thief we need your cover intact for tomorrow."

"You want me to stay here while you deal with the psychopathic serial killers? I can do that."

Peter finished strapping on his vest and pulled his gun from his holster. "I mean it, Neal. Do not leave this van."

Muffled voices echoed through the bug, followed by a lot of loud crashing and banging and then the unmistakable blast of a shotgun.

"Shots fired, we're going in," Diana said into the radio she was using to call for back-up.

Someone inside the building swore loudly.

Peter glanced back at Neal once more and crept around to the rear of the building, Jones and Diana forming up behind him.

Peter nudged the door open with his foot, checking the room, leading with his weapon. The back room was empty, but judging by the noise coming from the main gallery, there were several people in the building.

An irritated voice was asking, "What the hell are you doing, Cas?"

"Who's Cas?" hissed Jones.

"I don't know, but that's Dean Winchester talking." Diana replied.

In the next room, a voice rumbled deeply in reply: "I do not feel comfortable standing in front of Sam when he's so heavily armed."

Diana whispered into her radio that there were three armed men in the gallery.

"I'm not going to stab you again, Cas," the third voice said angrily, "and I was completely justified the first time."

"Guys, can we not do this now? We need to burn the damn thing and get out of here; someone will have heard the shots."

There was a loud crash as something flew against the wall, and the smash of glass as a framed painting hit the floor. The shotgun blasted again.

"Dean? Are you okay?"

"Urgh?"

Peter nudged the door open. The room was completely dark. He stepped in, his shoe crunching on broken glass.

"What was that? Burn the damn thing before it comes back!"

"FBI! Put down your weapons!" Peter shouted, echoed by Jones and Diana.

"Crap, I told you this was a bad idea!"

"Burn it, then we can go," Dean groaned. He sounded wounded. Peter surmised that the loud thumping had been him being thrown against the wall, although quite why his colleagues had chosen to attack him remained unclear. From everything Peter had heard he seemed to be the peacekeeper.

"Put down your weapons, I am turning on the light," Peter said calmly. He flicked the light switch. Nothing happened.

"The power's out," the man Peter assumed to be Sam Winchester told him, "We don't want to hurt anyone. If you just let us take care of this, we'll be out of your hair in no time."

"We have a problem," the low tones of 'Cas' stated expressionlessly.

"What kind of problem?" Peter asked.

"The painting is gone."

"What?" a chorus of voices asked.

"There is no painting here. Only a sign that states the painting is a reproduction."

"Son of a bitch!" Dean exclaimed. And then, "Where did you move the original?"

"I can't tell you that, Dean," Peter said, "Yes, that's right. We know who you are. Dean and Sam Winchester, and James Novak. We got your fingerprints from the hotel."

"Jimmy Novak is not responsible for my transgressions," Novak said, "My name is Castiel – "

He broke off when Dean interrupted: "Shut up, Cas!"

Diana's radio crackled with the news that SWAT was a minute out.

"Well, scintillating as this conversation is, we have to be going now," Dean Winchester said.

Peter wasn't exactly sure what happened next, but there was a flurry of noise and movement, and suddenly he was opening his eyes to a pair of SWAT-issue boots, and the gallery was lit with powerful flashlights.

Not a Winchester was in sight.

XXXX

"Well that went well," Dean said when they were back at their motel.

"No it didn't," said Cas.

Dean chose to concentrate on icing his bruised ribs rather than acknowledging the statement of the obvious. "So what now?"

"We have to leave," Sam insisted, "There are still warrants out on us. Not to mention the new breaking and entering and assault charges those Feds are going to stick on us when they find us.

"We can't leave. This spirit is _killing_ people, Sam. Not to mention, how the hell did it get the fake painting out?"

"Dean, there's nothing we can do. The real painting is in Federal custody. That means _it's locked in the FBI building_."

Dean opened his mouth.

Sam shook his head, "Don't even think about it, Dean. We are not breaking into the FBI."

Dean could see where his brother was coming from, but he didn't like it. It wasn't even just that the spirit was killing people violently, or that it had got the jump on him in the darkened gallery (although that always pissed him off). It was that the case was meant to be a simple run of the mill salt-and-burn to get them back on their feet. He'd picked New York because Sam had always got stupidly excited about things like museums when they were kids, and maybe it was wishful thinking but he'd thought Sam might need a reminder of how he used to be. That maybe reminding him of the good things in life would soften him up a bit again, stop him scratching at the wall, and maybe even stop him festering in resentment towards Cas, just for a few days. He'd picked the case for Cas, because Cas needed purpose, and maybe helping stop a spirit would stop the violent mood swings between guilt and indignation he'd been suffering from since the souls had been taken from him. And he'd picked it for him because he just couldn't handle thinking about anything more complicated right now, and he wanted to hang out with his brother and his best friend and stop worrying for a little while. He'd picked this case for a reason, and he was damned if he was leaving without seeing it through, even if the Feds chose to interfere.

Dean tossed his bag of ice on the table with rather more force than necessary. "What do you suggest we do about all the dying people then?"

Cas picked up the bag of ice and pressed it against Dean's ribs again. And, okay, it was a little weird, especially combined with the glare he was giving Dean, but Dean let it go because at least Cas was interacting, which was more than he did most of the time lately.

"We must kill the witch," Cas said, with somewhat frightening intensity.

XXXX

Neal headed home from the hospital once he was sure Peter was going to be alright. The doctor said Peter had a minor concussion, but Peter was more concerned about the Winchesters escaping again than about his head, so Neal took that as a good sign.

Neal lay back on his bed in his silk pyjama bottoms. The night was hot, but he'd made sure the windows were securely latched. Diana had said Dean Winchester and James Novak had been watching him. If they could overpower Peter, they could certainly overpower him. He closed his eyes to mull over what had happened that night. They still had an art thief to catch, after all.

Combining what he'd heard over the bug with Peter's account of what had happened, he listed in his head what he knew. First of all, the art thief was not working with the Winchesters. There had been too much crashing and shouting for that, and they were working at cross-purposes. The Winchesters had been upset when the painting was not there for them to burn. Secondly, the thief must have either been inside the building prior to the entry of the Winchesters, or have been hiding outside and slipped in immediately after the Winchesters, but before Peter, Jones and Diana. Thirdly, he or she must have either had a companion or set up a booby trap in advance to make the Winchesters believe they were being attacked, in the hopes of distracting them until the FBI arrived and arrested the Winchesters, thus solving the problem of being hunted by vigilantes. He or she must have deliberately cut the power to increase the confusion, allowing them to escape with the painting while the FBI and the Winchesters were distracted with each other. The problem was the escape. The canvas had been removed from the frame and presumably rolled up inside a tube, but then thief still needed an exit. Nobody had exited the front of the building; Neal had been watching. There was a possibility that the thief had stepped over the unconscious bodies Peter and Jones in the short space of time between the Winchesters attacking and SWAT's entry, but Diana had been awake and hadn't heard anything. That left an escape through a ceiling panel, ventilation shaft, or prepared hidden exit. Neal would have to look in the morning.

It didn't make sense to Neal. If he wanted to steal a painting, he would paint a reproduction, set up an identity that would allow him to case the place without anyone suspecting, and switch the paintings without anyone noticing. So maybe he wouldn't be able to resist doing it under the nose of the feds, but he wouldn't try to hurt anyone or complicate things by drawing in other people who weren't involved in the planning. And he certainly wouldn't deliberately set the alarm off to call in the FBI. All the extra stuff was unnecessary, and it would get the guy caught.

Neal eventually drifted off. Maybe he'd ask Mozzie's opinion in the morning.

XXXX

Sam woke early from a fitful sleep. Disturbing images had filtered through the wall when he'd relaxed. Mostly he couldn't even identify them, just woke with a faint burning sensation on his limbs or a feeling of floating horror with a source he couldn't remember. He tried not to think about what it had felt like when Cas had broken the wall, and the more he tried not to think about it, the harder it was.

He gave up on trying to sleep just as light was beginning to seep through the blinds. Crawling out of bed, unrested, he looked over at Dean, stretched out on top of the covers in the other bed. He didn't look like he was having a good night either. Sam hardly ever saw his brother sleep these days, but when he did it was usually calmer than it had been in the first couple of years after hell. It was just sometimes, like today, when his breathing was too fast and his eyes rolled crazily in their sockets that showed he still felt it. Sam suspected the only reason he didn't see it more was that Dean had started to stay awake and worry until Sam fell asleep.

That was really why Sam had agreed to stay. It wasn't because of the deaths, although that contributed. Mostly it was because Dean seemed to think seeing it through would prove they were still a team, or that they could still do something just because it was the right thing to do, or something. Dean was showing the strain. He seemed tense and anxious, hiding it behind jokes and smiles, especially when Sam and Cas disagreed about something. Dean needed something to go his way, to make it seem like everything was fine. So Sam was giving him this, even though it was a terrible idea.

He switched on his laptop, blinking in the sudden bright light, and began to research how a witch could control a spirit through a painting.

"Sam?" Cas was lying perfectly still on the extra cot.

"What?"

"I really am sorry about the wall."

Sam looked up, confused about the sudden apology.

Cas sat up in bed, his hair sticking out in all directions. "The job went badly because we could not co-operate. Dean is making us stay because he doesn't like us to fight. If we restore our friendship, the job will be finished more quickly, and we will have more chance to evade the police."

Sam nodded. Castiel's logic made sense. But it wasn't a real apology. And Sam wasn't going to apologise back.

XXXX


	5. Chapter 5

Peter sighed into his breakfast cereal and tapped his fingers on the table.

Elizabeth glanced at him. "I know that look. Case not going well, honey?"

"This guy's good, El. He must have been in the room with us, and slipped right between our fingers. We don't know what he looks like. We don't even have a name."

"You'll find him. You and Neal will go back to the gallery in the light, you'll figure out how he escaped, and then you'll have a lead. You always get your guy in the end. You got Neal, remember."

"Neal was chasing Kate. He walked into our trap because he cared about someone. This guy... he has no problems hurting or even killing people. The painting isn't worth much, and can't have too much sentimental value, because he keeps re-selling it. It doesn't make sense. Why would he go to the trouble?"

"Maybe it's a game, like it was with Neal, only instead of escaping the FBI, he's set himself a challenge to always get that painting back, making it harder and harder each time," Elizabeth suggested.

Peter smiled fondly at her. "Now I remember why I married you." He took a final bite of his cereal and carried the plate to the sink. "I'll call if I'm not going to make it home for dinner."

He dropped by June's to pick Neal up on the way to the gallery. Neal could have met him there, but the detour was worth it for June's Italian roast. They didn't pause for long, though. The thief already had the advantage on them, and he was only getting further ahead.

"What about the Winchesters?" Neal asked on the way.

"Road blocks and wanted posters," Peter replied dryly. He was doubtful that the Winchesters would be caught that way – after all, they had evaded the FBI for almost two years and only been in custody twice, once essentially turning themselves in, and the second time after an anonymous tipoff. However, Hughes had handed the investigation over to violent crimes, and there was really nothing he could do about it. _Except investigate in your own time, _a little voice said in his head. Which he was definitely not going to do this time. El would kill him.

"I think they'll be back," Neal said, "They seemed pretty determined to burn that painting."

"I think so too," said Peter, "I've got Jones following it up. There might be a connection between the reason they want to burn it and the reason it keeps being stolen."

"It's a game," Neal said, "He's selling it and stealing it back from places with more and more sophisticated security systems."

"I know," said Peter, "Now we just need to figure out who he is and how he's doing it."

Peter let Neal out of the car around the corner, in case the thief was watching the gallery, having realised the painting was fake. Neal would arrive at work like it was a normal day, and meet Peter there. He drove up to the gallery, parked, and entered the building, ducking under the crime scene tape across the doorway.

The room was a mess. Broken glass decorated the floor where paintings had fallen, lighting panels were cracked, and there were scuff marks on the walls. One of the walls was heavily indented, like something big had been thrown against it hard. That must have been where Dean Winchester had been thrown against it the night before, and Dean was obviously made of some pretty sturdy stuff if he could be thrown against a wall that hard and still walk. There were a few drops of an oily substance that the forensic team assured him was lighter fluid decorating the floor near where the reproduction of _Rivers in Flood_ had been hanging. They really had come in to burn it, then. Despite the multiple shotgun blasts, there was no buckshot to be found, but there was a large quantity of what appeared to be rock salt embedded in the walls.

But the weirdest thing of all was that there was no sign of forced entry except where the Winchesters had picked the lock in the back room.

XXX

Neal was stopped by an agent he didn't know very well on the way into the gallery. He feigned ignorance, all wide-eyed shock and questions, while the agent took him to Peter. If the thief was watching or had the place bugged, he wouldn't know Neal was with the FBI.

"What happened?" Neal asked.

"It's okay, we've swept for bugs. Ours was the only one. Now, how would you get a painting out of here without opening any doors?"

Neal examined the wreckage. The paintings were askew on the walls, and some were on the floor, canvas torn where the glass of their frames had bitten into them. It improved some of them drastically. It could almost be an art exhibition itself – _The Destruction of Horror_, or _Chaos Breeds_, or something. He ran his fingers along the walls, tapping for hollow spots, listening to the sound of his footsteps on the floor.

There were no trapdoors and no loose wall panels, which left ceiling panels and ventilation shafts. None of the ceiling panels could be easily removed from below, but there was always a way into the ceiling – builders included them for access to wiring and insulation. The entry point was in the back room, which meant the thief would have had to get past three Feds and probably three psychopaths who thought they were hunting ghosts. Therefore, there must be another way into the main gallery from the ceiling, either through a ventilation shaft, or through a ceiling panel that was locked in place from above.

The ventilation grate was high up on the wall. Neal dragged Melinda's desk chair under it and climbed up, removing the grate and sticking his head and shoulders inside the shaft. He shone a flashlight up it.

"What do you see?" Peter's voice was muffled.

"Narrow, but doable," Neal reported, his voice echoing around his head. "It's only a couple of feet up into the ceiling, but he'd have to be small and flexible, with decent upper body strength."

"How small?"

"Not much bigger than me. I think he probably used a ceiling panel locked from above, though. Even with a rope, this would be hard to get to in the dark. Wait... it's been used for something."

"What?"

"Someone's been in here; there are scuff marks on the sides."

"Okay, come out, we'll get CSU to look at it."

Neal wriggled backwards out of the small space. Behind him, Peter's voice rose in excitement. "Neal, Neal, look at this and tell me what you see!"

Neal turned and followed Peter's gaze across the room. Directly opposite the ventilation grate was the dent where Dean Winchester had smashed into the wall.

"This is where the booby trap was."

XXX

When Dean woke up, Sam and Cas were already awake. They were peering at something on Sam's laptop, and miraculously not arguing. The smell of motel room coffee wafted over to him.

Cas brought him a cup. "How are your ribs?" he asked. Today was a guilty day, then.

"Fine," Dean said, trying not to grimace as he sat up. "Food?"

"There was a cookie but Sam ate it."

Awesome.

"The feds know about Samuel Angus. We can't use that card anymore, and really shouldn't use credit cards at all. Do you have any cash?" Sam asked. "We should get new IDs. But food first."

Dean nodded, waving his hand in the general direction of his duffel bag, where his wallet was. It was lucky he was friggin' awesome at poker.

They sent Cas for food, because Dean was injured and Sam's size made him conspicuous.

"Wait, Cas," Dean said as Cas opened the door to leave. "Take off the trench coat. It's the middle of summer, people will remember you."

"But-" Cas looked like he was going to refuse for a moment, before the logic of Dean's argument won him over. He frowned, removing the coat slowly and unwillingly. He folded it carefully and handed it to Dean.

It struck Dean as he watched his friend leave that Cas seemed a lot smaller without his coat.

"We're going to have to work on the coat thing," he said to Sam.

Sam looked at him. "Do you really want to talk about people using coats as security blankets? How about cars?"

Point taken. But Cas was getting obsessive about it.

When Cas came back with breakfast, he put his coat back on immediately. He seemed to relax a little when it was back on, and Dean was slightly alarmed to find that he felt better too. Cas looked weird without it.

"So, two things – if the spirit is linked to the painting, how did it attack us when the painting wasn't in the room? And how did it make the painting disappear? Also, what makes you think this witch is controlling it?" Sam asked, carefully finishing his bite of cereal first.

"That's three."

"Three things, then."

Dean considered for a moment. "The reproduction was in the same frame, right? So maybe some tiny traces of the dried blood were left in it when the feds switched the paintings?"

"Okay, that makes sense, I guess, but it's a stretch. I suppose if the witch is binding the spirit it might be able to detach it from its source, too. But what about the fake one disappearing?"

"Maybe it's like the ghost ship, and can disappear and reappear at will."

"Explain yourself," Cas ordered.

"So the witch binds the spirit to the fake painting, right? Only the witch doesn't know it's fake. Then it calls the spirit back to it. The spirit has to follow the spellwork, and the painting is bound to the spirit, so the painting has to go with it. There you go, vanishing painting."

"I don't know, Dean. I guess it's possible in theory, but how do you know there's even a witch involved?"

"He was improbably perfect," Cas said.

"In what way?"

"He sold _two _of those terrible paintings while we were watching."

"His hair was too perfect."

"His suit was old fashioned, like if someone in the forties made themselves stay young and never changed the way he dressed."

"His second girlfriend had some kind of rare flower I didn't recognise in her buttonhole."

"His _second _girlfriend?" Sam asked

"They were both smokin' hot, too. And classy."

"Are you sure you aren't just jealous?"

"He was too likeable," Cas backed Dean up. "He made you want to please him. It's some kind of witchcraft."

"I think I was hypnotised by his tie pin," Dean said, "I almost wanted to buy the painting."

"So basically, he's good looking, charming and fashionable, and you stalked him all afternoon?"

"He's suspicious, Sam. All the customers came out with kind of dazed smiles, like they'd been whammied with something."

"Okay, fine. But only because the flower sounds suspicious. Did you get a good look?"

"We were across the road, Sammy."

"We need to find out where he lives."

Ten minutes later, all they could work out was that they were never going to find Matthew Grayson from the internet phone listings. There were thousands, and it probably wasn't even his real name. They would have to follow him home.

They separated for the morning. Dean would follow the witch home, because Sam was a head taller than everyone else in the crowd, and therefore very visible to feds. Sam insisted on buying him an 'I heart NY' cap and a pair of cheap sunglasses as a disguise. Dean felt ridiculous, but had to admit he blended in with the summer tourists, and it was kind of nice to have his face shaded in the heat. He sat outside a different cafe with iced coffee and watched the crime scene across the road. He hoped the guy was inside, because if he hadn't turned up for work Dean was wasting his time and risking his freedom for nothing.

Sam had gone to buy ingredients for a counter-spell that would unbind the spirit and send it back to the original painting, so that it would die when they burned it. He said he'd found it on the internet, but Dean suspected he'd learnt it from Ruby. He didn't push it, though. Sam was still touchy about Ruby, and heightened emotion was bad for the wall.

Cas was sight-seeing, which probably meant he was sitting in the park looking like a homeless person. Which he kind of was. Dean didn't want to think about it.

The witch came out of the gallery at a little before noon. He flipped his hat onto his head, looking far too pleased with himself for someone whose workplace had been broken into and trashed in the night. Dean followed him along the street, keeping well back and blending in with the lunch rush. The insane number of people was good for hiding in, but they also crowded in on him, making him feel trapped and tense and somewhat breathless, and he was glad when the witch turned down a side street with less people. He crossed the road and watched the guy's reflection in the store windows.

Fifteen minutes later, Dean was becoming concerned that he was running out of places to hide. He stood casually behind a streetlamp and resisted the urge to kick a fancily-dressed old lady's pug as it sniffed his feet. It growled at him.

"Not a dog person?" The old lady smiled at him.

"Not anymore," Dean mumbled, watching from the corner of his eye as the witch went into the well-kept old building on the corner.

He arrived at the park to meet Sam and Cas and hour later. Cas was already there, and Dean strongly suspected he'd been sitting there, staring at the trees the whole morning. There was a paper cup beside him that looked like it had contained ice-cream at some point, which was good. At least he was eating now. It jingled when he picked it up so he could sit next to Cas. It was full of change.

"Awesome," said Dean, "About time you started contributing to our finances."

Cas almost cracked a smile.

XXX


	6. Chapter 6

Neal went back to the gallery after lunch, wearing what Peter termed his 'cat-burglar outfit'. Peter was making him get up in the ceiling, and it had taken all of his considerable powers of persuasion to convince him to let Neal change beforehand. Although vintage suits were fantastic in every other way, they were definitely not appropriate wear for crawling around in a ceiling. Peter had accused him of trying to get out of it because he didn't want to get his suit dirty, but that wasn't it. Not at all. Okay, maybe a bit. But mostly because vintage suits offered limited movement and he was probably going to have to wriggle through some small spaces.

He'd called Mozzie while he was changing to get him to take over tailing the guy in the 'I heart NY' cap who had been following him. June was watching him now under the guise of walking Bugsy. He wasn't doing anything particularly threatening, just lurking at the end of the road, but all the same, Neal would feel more comfortable when she was out of harm's way.

Moz rang him as he was on his way back to the gallery.

"The ship is currently becalmed," Mozzie informed Neal in his most meaningful voice.

"What do you mean, Moz?"

"I mean they aren't doing anything. He's just sitting on a park bench with the alien. They aren't even talking." Mozzie sounded disgruntled.

"Didn't get to use your Russian Military surplus bugged apple core, huh?"

"Oh, I'm using it. So far, Work-boots has said, and I quote, 'about time you started contributing to our finances' and nothing else in the last hour."

"Just keep watching them, Moz. They must be waiting for something."

"Tell me something, Neal. You know I'm loath to involve the Feds in anything, but why are we not telling the suit that _there's a murderer sitting in the park_?"

"They're involved somehow. There must be a reason the art thief involved them."

"You mean he _drew_ them in."

Neal refused to acknowledge the pun. "Just call me back if something happens. And don't approach them."

XXXX

Peter looked up as Neal came back into the gallery in his cat-burglar outfit. He was dressed in loose-fitting blacks and greys and remained totally unaffected by the heat that was making most people drip sweat.

"What took you so long?"

"Style takes time, Peter."

"You're crawling around in a ceiling, not going to the theatre," Peter groaned, "Are you ready now? Don't need to do your hair first?"

"I'm ready," Neal said, pretending not to check his hair in the window.

Peter shook his head. "Up you go," he said, indicating the step-ladder that had been pulled under the ceiling trap-door in the back room.

It was worryingly quiet when Neal was in the ceiling. Peter knew from experience that when someone was crawling around in the ceiling it usually sounded like a herd of elephants were up there. He hadn't got a moment of peace while they were re-doing the insulation in his house. He supposed Neal had more practice than most from preparing for and pulling off his alleged crimes. Come to think of it, Neal had seemed a bit off when he'd come in. It made Peter nervous.

"Am I interrupting your reverie?" Neal's voice asked from behind him.

Peter jumped. "How did you get there?"

"We were right. There's a ceiling panel that can be removed from above, which is how he got in and out. There's also a false section of wall that leads next door, and a trapdoor out onto the roof from there."

"So he must have been planning this for months."

"He'd have to have access to the roof or ceiling, and it would take a while to install the false walls and ceiling."

"So we need someone with legitimate access, who no-one would think twice about..."

"Builders, electricians, maintenance workers, here or next door."

"And he had to know that the painting was going to be here. The owner gave me a list of everyone she told about the painting. It's short. She didn't want to advertise that she had it because of the history of violence associated with it. So either, one of them has to know the thief..."

"Or it was the thief that sold it to her."

"Exactly."

"I'm starting to think we should track down J.P. Collins. He probably painted it specifically so he could steal it back. No-one knows who he is, right?"

"Diana's already on it."

The thief had cleaned up after himself well. Nothing had been left behind. Not a fingerprint, not a drop of blood. All they could figure out about the booby trap was that some kind of pulley system had been set up in the ventilation shaft and it had sent something flying across the room and then pulled it back up, creating a distraction. It must have been on some kind of timer, so it would happen while the lights were cut and the cameras were taken out of commission with some kind of electromagnet that made them show grey static. They had found his entry and exit path, and limited the pool of suspects, but even if they found the guy, the evidence would be circumstantial at best. They were going to have to set a new trap.

XXX

Sam arrived at the park mid-afternoon. His morning was well spent. He'd got them all cheap clothes to change into, even Cas, who would probably refuse to change out of his trench-coat, thus putting them all in even greater danger of recognition. He'd also trekked around to various well-hidden little shops to find ingredients for the counter-spell. This part of New York was apparently not fashionable among witches, and he'd had to make do with some fairly questionable substitutes for ingredients, but the spell would probably still work. He'd also made them each a hex bag to ward off curses, which he knew Dean would protest about but eventually take just to keep him happy.

Dean and Cas were sitting on a park bench. Dean was eating a popsicle and had another pressed up against his ribs. Sam silently cursed himself for forgetting to buy pain medication. Cas was eating vanilla ice-cream from a paper cup, looking more cheerful than he had for months. Sam took a deep breath and told himself he wasn't annoyed that he'd been doing all the work while they hung out in the park and ate ice-cream.

"Oh, my apologies," someone said as they bumped into him lightly. Sam looked down at the short, balding man who had continued walking without waiting for him to reply. It seemed odd that someone would walk into him in such a sparsely populated area of the park, but then the guy _was_ reading his newspaper as he walked.

"Did you get everything?" Dean asked.

"Pretty much. As close as I could find, anyway. How're your ribs?"

"I've had worse. I found out where he lives. Want a popsicle?" Dean held out the still wrapped ice block he'd had against his ribs."

The need for something cold won out over the weirdness of eating something his brother had been rubbing over his body, and Sam took it. He sat beside his brother on the bench. "Do we have a plan for tonight?"

XXX

"What's up, Moz?" Neal answered his phone. Peter had just dropped him off and he was setting up to finish off the painting he was giving Peter for his birthday.

"Meet me at Monday in half an hour." Mozzie hung up.

Neal made it to the safehouse (deliberately chosen to be just inside his range) in twenty minutes, first carefully covering Peter's painting.

"They're breaking into your house tonight," Mozzie said without waiting for the usual pleasantries.

"How do you know?"

"Because they said so."

"Did they say why?"

"You have to call Peter and get June out of there, Neal. This is serious."

"I know, Moz. I called him on the way here. He's got a team stationed outside, and June's staying with her daughter."

"These are not our kind of people, Neal. Look at this." He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it on the table in front of him.

"What's this?" Neal picked it up to examine it.

"A spell. I picked Sam Winchester's pocket, am even more dangerous feat than one might imagine. They're planning to put a spell on you."

"That's ridiculous. Spells don't work."

"Oh, I beg to differ. Witches are very real. How do you think half of those people get into the government? And they think you're one."

"They think I'm a witch?"

"Oh yes. And you know what the Winchester brothers do to witches? Oh, that's right, they kill them. And probably burn them."

"That seems a little hypocritical."

"Oh no, this is a _counter-spell_, which is apparently alright because it's to reverse a spell they think you did."

"Why would they think I'm a witch? And more importantly, what happens when their spell doesn't work?" Neal asked.

Mozzie opened the laptop that was sitting on the table and plugged a small device into the USB port. "This should answer a few of your questions."

The audio control screen came up and the recording from Mozzie's apple core bug began to play. There was a short period of silence, and then Dean Winchester's voice came through, slightly distorted.

"Take your coat off, Cas. You look like a homeless person."

"I don't want to take my coat off."

"Come on."

"No."

There was a moment of silence.

"You'll be more comfortable."

"No."

"Look me in the eye and tell me you aren't too hot in that coat."

Mozzie clicked fast forward. "It goes on like that for a while. Do you want to hear it?"

"Just skip to the good bits," Neal said. "But wait, who won?"

"Cas won. There was a stare-down." Mozzie informed him, "Ah, here we go."

The recording began to play again.

"Dean?" Cas asked.

"Yeah?"

"Why are you so insistent on completing this job? I'm beginning to think you _want_ to go to prison."

"I don't. I just wanted a normal case so we could save some people and maybe Sam could go to a few museums. I just want everything to go back to how it was."

"Before I messed everything up."

"It wasn't just you, Cas. I mean it was partly you, but there's all the other stuff too."

"Do you remember when we sat in the park after the rising of Samhain? You told me that all this, the trees and the children playing made everything you did worthwhile."

Mozzie pressed fast forward again. "There's a lot of that, too. There's definite tension in the ranks. It seems like they're staying because Dean wants to and making Dean happy is Cas's sole purpose in life."

"Can we skip the soap opera and get to the important stuff?" Neal asked impatiently.

"Oh, here we go. This is when Sam arrives and they start planning." Mozzie pressed play.

Sam was talking. "You found out where the witch lives, then?"

Dean replied. "Yep. All we have to do is get in, destroy his altar, set up the counter-spell – why is there a teddy bear in this bag?"

"That is not a bear, Dean. It is a rabbit."

"Why is there a soft toy rabbit in this bag?"

"Excuse me for not wanting to sacrifice a live rabbit."

"Why the hell do so many spells call for sacrificing bunnies? I friggin' hate witches, man."

Sam continued, "Let's hope this will do instead. Have you got a plan for getting the witch out of the way?"

"Tie him up and interrogate him until he tells us why and how he's murdering these people, and if there's a way to stop it without burning the original painting."

Mozzie stopped the recording.

Neal called Peter. He still didn't understand why they thought he was a witch.


	7. Chapter 7

The short, balding man had stolen the list of spell ingredients from Sam's pocket. Cas was sure of it. He had been behaving oddly the whole time Cas had been sitting in the park with Dean. Cas hadn't thought anything of it at the time, but he and Dean had been sitting there for several hours, and the small man had remained a short distance away, reading a newspaper and occasionally making a phone call until Sam had arrived. Sam was somewhat sceptical; he could not believe someone could pick his pocket without him noticing. Cas nearly argued with him, annoyed at his input being discarded, but at the same time knowing he did not deserve the forgiveness the Winchesters had extended to him. He'd enjoyed himself that afternoon, though. He liked sitting with Dean, even if it wasn't the same as it used to be, and he thought things were improving between them after their talk. So he didn't argue with Sam, instead simply suggesting that they add a concealment factor to the hex bags.

They spent the rest of the afternoon improving the hex bags (for once, Dean made no comment about their origin), and going over the ritual for the spell and the plan for entering the house of the witch and confronting him. They were unfortunately somewhat lacking in weaponry, the weapons bag being abandoned in the hotel, and the Impala being parked safely out of Manhattan traffic in a parking building on the outskirts of the city. They had handguns and spare bullets, several knives of various metals, and hipflasks of holy water. No shotguns or salt, though, which meant they were in trouble if the witch called the spirit down upon them before they could disable him.

In the end, Cas was dispatched to buy salt and food while Dean and Sam found a motel to return to after disabling the witch. Dean made him wear the colourful hat and the sunglasses as a 'disguise'. Cas privately thought he would be more noticeable wearing them, but Dean was smiling so he wore them anyway.

There was a poster with Jimmy Novak's face on it in the window of a car-hire facility he walked past. He was beginning to think staying in Manhattan was a very bad idea.

He found his heart was beating unusually fast as he waited in line to purchase the salt. He paid quickly and tried not to look like a psychopath. The young woman at the checkout barely looked at him, although the other people in the line were glancing curiously at the bulk bag of salt and studiously avoiding his eyes. He felt the strange emptiness inside again.

He realised then that nobody recognised him from the posters. They simply found him strange and wanted nothing more to be out of his presence.

When he returned to the Winchesters with salt and cheeseburgers, everything was prepared. All they had to do was wait until the witch would be sleeping.

They waited until nearly midnight before beginning to walk to the witch's house. It was some distance away from the motel, but they could not use public transportation because bus and subway stations were the first places wanted posters were put up. It was strange that now driving seemed so much faster than walking; when he had still had his wings, he had been used to travelling at speeds that made the two modes of travel seem almost the same. Now, as the urge to do something useful filled him, he realised that walking was very slow indeed.

They broke into the house undetected, due in large part to the hex bags they all carried. It was darker inside the house, where the glow of the streetlamps did not penetrate, and to Cas's ears it sounded like they were making enough noise to wake the dead as they stumbled about looking for the altar.

There seemed to be no-one home, and the only sign that the witch lived there was the hat on the post of the stairs. There was an apartment at the top of the stairs, shut off from the rest of the house by a locked door. Sam picked the lock. It seemed the witch lived in someone else's house, and it didn't seem fair to kick in all the doors in the house of an innocent bystander.

There was a growl in the dark as they edged the door open. Cas felt Dean go tense beside him and then pretend he hadn't. They held their guns ready. Something rushed at them. Sam flicked the light switch.

There was no-one in the room. Sam gently removed the dog from Dean's leg and deposited it outside the door.

"Frickin' pug," Dean growled, "Look what it did to my boot."

XXXX

Neal let out a sigh of relief. They hadn't hurt Bugsy. The dog had escaped from the wardrobe where Neal was concealed, apparently because of some misguided determination to protect its home. Neal hadn't been able to call him back without revealing his hiding place. He sent another urgent text to Peter. How the hell had they managed to bypass the feds outside? Neal could have done it, but Neal was clever and charming and didn't walk into pianos in the dark.

The Winchesters were talking. Neal had decided to lump Novak, or 'Cas' as he seemed to be calling himself, in with the brothers. It was easier that way. The light was blazing in his room. He peeked out through the hidden peek-hole and watched them.

They were looking for something. Neal stifled an angry exclamation as the stack of paintings against the wall tumbled down. He heard his bed being moved and the sound of books being thrown from his shelves to the floor.

"Dean, watch it! Those are valuable books!"

Well, that was interesting. Peter had said that Sam was the more educated of the pair, but Neal still hadn't expected him to care about destroying the property of a victim. They had no history of stealing valuables and on selling them. From what Neal had heard they tended more towards armed bank robbery.

"There is no altar here." Neal couldn't see Novak from his vantage point but the clinking of bottles told him his wine collection was being interfered with.

"There must be a hidden room somewhere," Sam said, "A lot of these old houses were built as secret gambling dens during the prohibition – there's probably hidey holes and secrets passageways everywhere."

Neal felt a thrill of panic run through him. There really weren't that many hiding places. Where was Peter? Neal was pretty sure he could forgive any amount of rubbing it in if Peter would just come charging in to heroically rescue him right about now.

"Awesome," Dean said, running his hand along the wall by the wardrobe door. "Do you think there were smugglers?"

Neal stepped back from the peek-hole and huddled against the wall, trying to disguise himself amongst the clothes. The wardrobe door opened slowly and a figure entered, gun first, silhouetted against the bright light of the room.

"Holy crap," said Dean. "Who needs this many clothes?"

It struck Neal that Dean would probably get along very well with Peter, if he wasn't a psychopath. Neal stepped away from the wall, hitting Dean with the brightest smile he could muster. "Hi," he said, "Can I help you find something?"

It all happened very fast after that. One minute he was having a perfectly nice conversation in his wardrobe with a gun-toting lunatic, and the next he was tied to a chair in his dining area and three large men were pointing guns at him and demanding to know the whereabouts of his dark altar.

It didn't really seem like they were going to shoot him, though. He knew a bluff when he saw it. People who buy stuffed rabbits so they don't have to sacrifice live ones don't shoot before they find out where the dark altar is. Neal worked at distracting them while he slipped his bindings.

"What makes you think I'm a witch? Can you explain your reasoning?" He asked, working at the knot around his wrists.

"Just tell us where it is. We know you're killing those people." Dean's voice was quiet and menacing. He was really a lot more threatening than he had seemed when he was pretending to buy artwork.

"Now come on," Neal protested, "I've never killed anyone. I don't like guns."

"We know you're controlling the spirit. We know you're doing it. We saw the chicken bones."

Neal was never having chicken for dinner again.

"He's not going to talk. Sammy, just do the spell."

"I can make him talk," Novak spoke up. His voice was level and emotionless, and the barrel of his gun didn't waver from Neal's forehead. It was terrifying.

"Don't be too hasty, Smitey McSmiterson. We need him to tell us what he did." Dean spoke to his friend, but he never took his eyes off Neal. "Where's the fake painting?"

"Stolen," Neal gasped out. Cautiously, he pulled his right hand out of its binding, careful not to move the rope.

In the background, behind Dean and Novak and the guns, Sam Winchester was getting blood on the sofa. A faint tinge of annoyance bubbled up through Neal's fear. "Can you tell your brother to do that somewhere else?" He asked.

Dean and Novak ignored him.

Sam was chanting and slitting open the belly of the toy rabbit, pouring blood from a jar onto the clean white stuffing. Neal watched in horror as he sprinkled some kind of herbs over the blood-soaked rabbit and set it on fire.

"Could you do that in the sink or something? You're going to burn the house down."

And finally, finally, just as Sam was tipping water over the flaming rabbit, leaving a pool of charcoal-filled water on June's beautiful flooring, and Neal was insisting that the fake painting really had been stolen, the door burst open and Peter came in with the SWAT team.

XXXX

Peter ran straight to Neal, ignoring the commotion around him. He'd _told_ Neal not to stay at home. He'd even offered him the spare room at his house, even though Neal would take it to mean he could come over whenever he wanted and steal the toys from the cereal boxes and generally behave like a child. But no, Neal had insisted, and now he was tied to a chair and there was a flaming rabbit on his precious sofa.

"Where have you been?" Neal hissed as Peter finished untying him.

Peter wasn't really sure how to answer that. He wasn't sure how the Winchesters had got past his team at all, just that there had been no sign of them at all until Neal's text came in, and then when they had started to go in everyone had started behaving very strangely. Even Peter had found himself suddenly forgetting why he had his gun out and was going into June's house, and had had to look up the Winchesters to figure out who they were after re-reading Neal's text.

"Cowboy up," he told Neal unfairly, "You're not dead are you?" But he patted him on the back and put his arm around the consultant's shoulders, silently saying _"Of course I came for you. I always will."_

Jones had Jimmy Novak at gunpoint. Novak did not seem particularly concerned by this, or by the two members of SWAT who were closing in behind him. He was walking slowly towards the agent, his hands at his sides, gun held loosely in his right hand. His cold blue eyes were staring at Jones, and Peter could see Jones struggling to stand his ground.

"Run, Dean," said Novak.

"Cas!" Dean shouted from the door to the roof.

"Go, Dean!" Novak raised his voice this time.

And then Sam Winchester was pulling his brother away and Peter was shouting at them to freeze and shots were being fired, and the Winchesters were disappearing over the edge of the roof.

"They will probably not come back for me," Jimmy Novak said mildly, and allowed himself to be handcuffed.

XXX

Sam and Dean sprinted along the street, ducking into an alleyway. "Don't worry man," said Sam, patting his brother on the shoulder, "We'll get him back."

XXX


	8. Chapter 8

"Tell me again why we're not waiting for a psychiatrist," Neal said as Peter moved to go into the interrogation room where Jimmy Novak sat.

"We need information. We'll never get anything out of him once the shrink gets here, but he knows something about our thief, I'm sure of it," Peter replied, "No, you stay out here."

Neal opened his mouth to protest, but Peter cut him off. "I don't want to hear it, Neal. He just tried to kill you; you're too close to this."

Neal looked mutinous for a moment, but Peter gave him his sternest look and eventually he went to sulk at his desk while Peter did the interview.

Peter entered the room where Novak was handcuffed to the desk. Novak was looking curiously out through the glass wall into the open plan section of the office, his head tilted slightly to one side.

Peter sat opposite him, placing Novak's thin file on the desk in front of him. No priors, just a missing person's report. "We've got you on attempted murder, Jimmy. You better start talking."

Novak wrenched his gaze from the window and looked Peter up and down. "Very well. What would you like me to talk about?"

Well, that was easier than he'd been expecting. "Why don't we start with why you broke into my consultant's home and held him at gunpoint?"

"We believed him to be the witch responsible for murdering at least four people. Although it now appears we may have been mistaken." Novak's tone was mild. Peter thought _mistaken_ was something of an understatement.

"You thought he was a witch, huh?"

"There was considerable circumstantial evidence."

Oh, Peter had to hear this. He glanced out the window to where Neal was lurking, pretending not to spy on the interview. "And what would that be?"

"He is... suspiciously successful. It appeared he was performing some sort of magic to encourage people to adhere to his wishes."

Peter owed Neal the biggest I-told-you-so ever. Something-for-nothing schemes always lead to bad places.

"This isn't looking good for you, Jimmy. Attempting to murder an FBI consultant because he's got a good sales technique isn't going to go down well with a jury. But I think I'm right in saying that this wasn't your idea. Give me the Winchesters or a good lead on the _Rivers in Flood _case and maybe we can make a deal."

"I am not Jimmy Novak. You should not blame him for my actions." The man opposite him seemed to harden.

"This is a limited time offer, Jimmy." Peter forced himself to look into Novak's intense gaze.

"My name is Castiel," Novak said, his voice low and threatening. He glared at Peter, pulling himself up to his full height in his chair. "I am an... I am human." He seemed to deflate, turning his head to stare out the window again.

"I'm aware that you're human, Jimmy. What do you know about _Rivers in Flood_? Why were you 'investigating' it?"

"Dean wanted to."

Peter sighed. "Why did Dean want to?"

"He felt it would distract me from the loss of my grace."

Through gritted teeth, Peter said: "But why this case? What do you know about the painting?"

"There have been several suspicious deaths associated with it. We believe them to be caused by a vengeful spirit bound to the painting."

"I see." Peter waited for Novak to continue. He didn't. The man was looking out through the glass wall again, eyes following Neal as the consultant turned to speak to someone. "And what does this have to do with Neal?"

"The disappearance of the reproduction indicated that the spirit had been bound to it and used to remove it from the gallery. The only way that would be possible is through witchcraft."

"Ghosts don't exist, Jimmy. The painting was removed by a person, and I know you know something more. You attacked my consultant immediately after we discovered how the painting was removed. You could have escaped the city. Why would you choose to risk capture if you had nothing to do with the theft?"

Novak looked directly into Peter's eyes. "We wished to prevent further deaths," he said.

Peter was getting more and more frustrated. It wasn't often that you came across crazies in his line of work. Most con-men and fraudsters were highly intelligent, committing crimes for which they needed clear heads. Even Mozzie, with all his quirks and conspiracy theories, was not actually insane. He knew the difference between fantasy and reality, which clearly Jimmy Novak did not. He changed tack.

"Where are the Winchesters?" he asked. It sounded as though the leader of this little band of criminals was Dean Winchester. Speaking to him would give Peter a better idea of what they knew. Not to mention the fact that Peter would just love to put those guys behind bars for life.

"They will probably not come back for me," Novak said sadly, suddenly fascinated by the wall behind Peter's head.

"You've got no priors, Jimmy. Turn in the Winchesters and you might be able to get a reduced sentence."

Jimmy Novak sat rigidly in his chair and stared at the wall. "I am not Jimmy Novak," he said.

Peter gave up and left him there with an agent at the door while they waited for the psychiatrist.

XXX

Sam opened his laptop and turned it on. Over the whirring of the computer start-up he could hear his brother pacing the room.

"What are you doing, Sam?" Dean asked exasperatedly. He was all ready to dash out the door after Cas, unable to contain his impatience.

"We need a plan, Dean. They'll have taken him to the FBI building. We don't have a way in, we don't know what floor he's on, or what the security measures are, and we don't have an inside man. If you go rushing off after Cas now, all that's going to happen is you getting arrested." It was just like Dean, rushing into something without thinking about it. Sam hated not having a plan.

Dean took a deep breath and let it out, forcing himself to sit opposite Sam. "You're right," he agreed. "We need a plan."

"Not to mention the spirit," Sam said, trying to ignore the tension on Dean's face. "I know I was against going into the FBI to take care of it but if we have to go in anyway to rescue Cas we might as well kill two birds with one stone."

"Dude, I'm starting to think we might have been wrong about that guy being the witch. He didn't crack when we had him at gunpoint, and nothing seemed to happen when you did the unbinding ritual. What if..." Dean trailed off. Sam knew he was about Cas. Probably blaming himself for Cas getting arrested.

Sam pulled up the FBI website on the laptop. "We'll get him back, man," he said. He might be pissed at Cas (_really pissed_), but the guy was Dean's best friend and had basically turned himself in to let them get away. Sam wasn't going to let him get locked up for the rest of his life. Plus, they didn't know how well Cas would stand up under interrogation, and he knew where they were staying.

Dean frowned. "Maybe it's the artist," he said, in a sudden change of subject that caught Sam slightly off guard.

"What do you mean?"

"No-one's ever seen him, right? No-one knows who he is? What was the name of the guy Melissa bought the painting from?"

"Melinda, Dean. She bought it in an internet auction from a guy called John Cale, but she never met him."

"Marc Winterbourne bought it from a guy called Joseph Clark. The artist's name is J.P. Collins," Dean said, warming up to his subject.

"You think they're all the same person?" Sam asked.

"Exactly. And the murders are escalating. The first one was a pretty normal locked door situation and they've been getting weirder and weirder."

Sam almost laughed at the fact that they now considered a murder inside a room locked from the inside a run of the mill case. "Like he's building up to something," he said, "Like maybe a murder in the FBI building?"

"Think about it, Sam. If you wanted to murder someone inside the FBI building, how would you do it?"

"I wouldn't, Dean. I'm not a psychopath."

"Just roll with it, man."

"So you're thinking the guy had someone specific in mind, painted the painting using the blood of someone whose spirit would go straight for that guy, and all these murders up till now have just been practice?"

"It got the painting inside the federal building, didn't it?"

Sam nodded. It was pretty clever, actually. And maybe all the previous deaths were connected somehow as well. Like if they all knew something. It would explain why the newest owner hadn't been killed, if it had been the guy's plan all along to get it inside the federal building. "We need to get into the building tonight and burn the painting before someone gets killed."

"So here's the plan," Dean said, looking considerably more cheerful than he had a few minutes ago, "Get into the building. Rescue Cas. Burn the painting. Get out. Find the witch. Destroy any witchy stuff it has, and deliver to the feds without getting caught."

"Pretty much. Only we should probably find the witch first, or at least identify him. He's bound the spirit to the painting using spell work, so he can remove it after the murder. If he's still got control of the spirit he'll be able to remove it before we can burn it."

Dean nodded, tapping his fingers impatiently on his leg. "What if they move Cas?" he said. "If he's not in the building when we go in, we'll never get him back."

Sam looked at his screen, trying to concentrate on tracking the artist.

Dean stood up. "You keep doing that," he said, "I'm going to distract the feds."

He was out the door before Sam could stop him.

XXX

Neal watched through the glass as the Jimmy Novak stopped talking. Just closed his mouth and stared at the wall. Peter came out a moment later.

"Anything?" Neal asked.

Peter shook his head. "We're gonna have to wait for the shrink. He's beyond crazy and he doesn't seem to know anything about the thief. The Winchesters seem to have thought you were stealing it and murdering people using witchcraft."

Neal spluttered. "But _why_? Why would they think that?"

Peter clapped a hand on his shoulder. "You seemed much more successful than you should be, and they thought you were using some kind of magic to get people to do what you wanted."

"And it didn't occur to them that I might just be a people person?"

"Apparently not. Like I said, absolutely nuts. You okay?"

Neal grinned at him. "Aren't I always?" He asked, and put his hands in his pockets so Peter wouldn't see them shaking.

"Sure you are," said Peter. "Why don't you get us some coffee and I'll call Elizabeth and tell her we'll be here a while."

Everyone was in Peter's office, and Neal was setting the coffee on the long table when the phone rang. Peter quickly finished the message he was leaving for El and hung up his cell phone. He picked it up the phone.

"Peter Burke," he said. There was a pause, and then Peter was signalling for a trace. He put the phone on speaker. "Dean Winchester."

"Hi guys," The voice said through the phone. "How are you doing?"

Jones was setting up the trace, waving his hand to keep him talking.

"Oh, I'm fine," said Neal. "I'm going to need you to pay for the sofa, though."

"Dude, the sofa's fine. Sammy hardly got any blood on it."

"Why are you calling us, Dean?" Peter asked.

"Turns out we were wrong about who the witch is. Just calling to let you know we've got a new lead."

There was a click as Dean hung up. Everyone turned to look at Jones. He shook his head.

"Dammit," said Peter. "Why would he call us just to say that?"

Diana spoke up. "He kind of sounded like he was apologising."

Five minutes later the phone rang again.

"Hey guys," said Dean, "I have a question for Peter Burke. Does anyone have a vendetta out on you? Maybe someone you pissed off about ten years ago?"

"I'll ask the questions, Dean," Peter growled.

Jones gestured to keep the conversation rolling.

"You answer mine, I'll answer yours." Dean's reply was almost drowned out by a fire siren.

"Sure," Peter said, "I'm good at my job. I lock plenty of bad guys away. Like you, for instance. Now, my question. Where are you?"

"New York," said Dean, and hung up the phone.

Dean Winchester called every five to ten minutes for several hours. He would call, ask a question, wait for an answer, and hang up.

First it was: "Was there someone you put away for art theft?"

Peter told him he put away lots of people for art theft, and asked him where his brother was. Dean told him they'd split up.

The next question was "Do you know anyone with the initials J.C.?"

Peter asked him why and Dean told him that J.C. was a witch.

A pattern was emerging. It seemed the Winchesters were still investigating and they had made some pretty decent connections. Neal was kicking himself for not thinking of it. The thief had been building up to get to Peter.

Dean stopped calling just as it was getting light. They'd kept him on the line long enough to track him twice, but each time he'd disappeared by the time the police got there.

Neal dredged through his memory for people with the initials J.C. while Peter had Diana search the databases of arrests he'd made. "I know a guy with the initial J.C.," he said, "He's pretty well known in the art world, might be able to pull something like this off. I don't know what his connection to you would be though."

Peter looked at him. "Art theft world, you mean."

Neal shrugged and gave Peter his brightest smile.

Peter sighed. "What's his name?"

"Justin Case."

"Seriously?"

"No, really, that's his name. I think it turned him bad."

Finally, they were getting somewhere.

XXX


	9. Chapter 9

The FBI agent that had questioned Cas did not come back into the room for several hours after Cas had stopped talking. Cas was growing impatient. Despite the glass walls, the room was growing confining. Being trapped in a small space with no escape was not something he had experienced before the loss of his grace, and he found it unpleasant. It reminded him of the days immediately after the souls had been taken from him, when he had first realised he could no longer escape the confines of his human body. Something was happening in the office next door. A large number of agents were crowded around a telephone. It would ring periodically and the agent who had questioned him would speak into it briefly, sending those around him into flurries of activity. The agents were looking excited, the way Dean and Sam looked when they were getting close to figuring something out. Everyone seemed to have forgotten him, except the agents at the door.

Cas couldn't sit in the chair any longer. He stood up and began to pace the room, watching the agents through the glass wall. Back and forth, back and forth. The agents looked altogether too gleeful. It worried him, because it meant that either they thought they had solved they case, and were going to confront the witch without the proper preparation and get killed, or that they had found the Winchesters. He thought maybe he should feel a little bad that he hoped it was the former. It disturbed him sometimes how many lives he would trade for Dean's.

Cas was making his seventy-ninth trip across the room towards the door when the agent who had interviewed him came back. He was holding coffee and a donut, and the man Cas and Dean had thought was a witch was with him.

"Sit down, Mr Novak," Agent Burke said, placing the coffee and food on the table. Cas wished he would stop calling him Mr Novak. He did not sit down.

"Remember me?" The man who wasn't a witch asked. He smiled. Cas eyed him suspiciously. People didn't smile at those who had just threatened their life.

"Sit down," Burke insisted, with a somewhat sinister pleasantness. "Eat your breakfast." He indicated the food.

Cas resisted for another moment and then sat down slowly. He sipped some coffee. It was difficult to manoeuvre while wearing handcuffs, but he managed it.

He looked at Agent Burke, wondering if they had come to take him to prison.

"We've been talking to your friend Dean."

A spark of hope rushed through Cas, followed by a groan as he realised it had been Dean on the phone, and he was about to do something stupid.

"He's been asking us questions about our case. Now what we want to know from you, Jimmy, is why he's still here. Is he really that stupid, or does he have some sort of ulterior motive?"

Oh. They were staying for the case. For a second, Cas had thought they might be coming back for him. He mentally kicked himself. A few years ago, before he'd betrayed them, the Winchesters would have certainly come after him on a reckless rescue mission. But not anymore. Cas had seen to that.

Apparently Dean really was stupid enough to stay around and finish the case. Cas wasn't going to say that to the smug man sitting across from him, though. It gave him a strange feeling of annoyance when other people called Dean stupid.

"Do not call me Jimmy," he said.

The shiny man was looking at him with big blue eyes. His hair was perfectly arranged and he was wearing a blue shirt that matched his eyes. He seemed remarkably calm for someone who had been tied up and threatened not long ago. There was something abnormal about him. The man smiled at him. Cas found himself wanting this man to like him, and had to stamp down on the urge to tell him all his secrets. He wasn't at all sure there wasn't some magic involved.

XXX

Dean met up with Sam for breakfast, relying on the hoards of people at the busy fast-food joint to hide them. He hadn't slept all night and from the looks of him Sam hadn't either. They sat in a booth in the back corner to compare notes while they ate.

"Got anything?" He asked Sam through a mouthful of bagel.

Sam opened the laptop and slid it across to him. "Well it took me a few hours," he said, "but I found a few possibilities. This is the most likely."

Dean skim read the article. It was nearly six years old and summarised the conviction of a woman called Felicity Case for art forgery and her subsequent murder after being released from prison. It contained quotes from the arresting officer Peter Burke as well as her husband, Justin Case. Dean snorted at the name.

"Looks likely," he said. "Any way to get hold of him?"

"You're not going to like it," Sam warned him.

"Just say it."

"Justin Case was suspected of working with his wife. Felicity would paint forgeries, Justin would break in and replace originals with the copies, and they would sell the real paintings through a fence. Justin was never caught because the Feds had no evidence and his wife wouldn't testify against him. One of the fences they were suspected of using wasn't arrested at the time but was put away two years ago for a different crime and is still in prison. He probably knows how to get to Justin."

Dean groaned. "You want to go talk to someone at a prison while the feds are after us?" He hissed, leaning across the table to make it harder for the people in the next booth to overhear them. "And you say I'm reckless."

"Well, we could just leave, Dean."

"Dude, we have to save Cas. He won't survive in prison."

"Well, those are our only two options. I already checked the phone directory. There's about a million J. Cases in New York, and he's probably not even using his real name."

Dean took a last gulp of coffee. "How do we get in?"

Sam smiled a little. "Remember that guy we helped out with the poltergeist a few years ago?"

"You're gonna have to be a bit more specific, Sammy."

"Steven Paul. Poltergeist nearly killed his wife. He's a guard at the prison where the fence is doing his time. I already talked to him. He can get us in to talk to him today."

XXX

Neal looked across the table at Jimmy Novak, who was frowning slightly at him. The man sat stiffly in his chair and stared. Neal kept his smile firmly in place and tried not to think about the coldness with which the blue-eyed man had held a gun to his head. He was very glad that Peter was with him and maybe was hiding behind his friend just a little bit.

"We need to know what the Winchesters are planning," Peter prompted again. "We can protect you from them, but you need to tell us what's happening."

Neal thought that this might be a slight miscalculation on Peter's part, but then Peter hadn't been there when Dean was holding his friend back from killing Neal.

"I am not afraid of the Winchesters," Jimmy Novak said, glaring at them.

Neal tried a different tack. "We're going to catch them. It's only a matter of time. They'll never get another false ID again. You gave yourself up so they could get away, so you must have a reason for wanting them to escape. Give us a reason not to shoot if the try to escape when we catch them." He ignored Peter's disapproving look and looked imploringly at Novak.

The man's expression did not change much, but Neal thought he looked a little worried.

"Do not be foolish," Jimmy Novak said, his voice seeming to become deeper and more gravelly. "You are interfering in things you do not understand. The Winchesters are more important than you know and their imprisonment or death will have repercussions for earth and the heavens. You should stop investigating this painting and you should stop chasing the Winchesters. Both are dangerous."

Neal fought the urge to move back and hide where those eyes couldn't bore into him. It was the longest speech the suspect had made and he made it with such intensity that Neal almost believed him. He snuck a glance at Peter, and even the implacable FBI agent seemed a little ruffled. Not so anyone who didn't know him well would notice, but even so it was worrying.

There was a knock on the door and Diana entered. "We got a hit," she said. "Oh, and the psychiatrist is here to talk to Novak."

Neal had very rarely been glad to leave a room in his life. As Peter closed the door behind them, Novak's voice warned: "Do not enter the room with the painting. It will not end well for you."

Diana had been chasing down connections between J.C. and the gallery. If Dean Winchester's deduction was correct, the man responsible for the thefts and murders was cocky enough to use the same initials for all his aliases. Any maintenance worker or electrician working in the area before the opening of the gallery was under suspicion.

"We've got an electrician going by the name of James Carr who came in to set up the lighting for the gallery and a roofer who was repairing the roof two doors down called Jack Carlson," Diana reported. "Either had access to the ceiling and could have set up the escape route without raising alarm bells. Neither has an arrest record or is a known alias and both work for reputable companies."

"Follow them up," Peter said, "We can't miss anything on this one."

A young agent came up to them. He was relatively new and somewhat nervous of Peter. "Sir? We found a connection between Justin Case and you. You arrested his wife nine years ago for art forgery. He was under suspicion for art theft but nothing could be proved."

"But nothing to suggest that J.P. Collins is an alias for Justin Case?"

"No sir."

"Keep looking."

The agent scurried back to his computer.

Neal's cell phone beeped. He pulled it from his pocket, inspecting the screen.

_A source informs me_

_ The artist uses the name_

_ Of a German fish_

"Mozzie's found Case's new alias," he informed Peter.

Peter read the message over Neal's shoulder. "What the hell does that mean? Why can't he communicate like a normal person?"

"This way is more fun. It means the name Case is going by is Jerry followed by a type of fish that starts with C."

"You couldn't get him to be more specific? What fish starts with C?"

"Well, Clownfish seems improbable. Also Catfish," Neal made his way to the only computer in the place that wasn't in use. "You know Moz. He doesn't want people to know he's helping the feds. He's only doing this because of me."

Diana came back while Neal and Peter were running possible names through the system. Neal was drumming his fingers impatiently. He was glad he wasn't a real FBI agent. This was nearly as boring as sitting in the van.

"The roofer, Jack Carlson is in the clear. He's been with his firm eighteen years, hasn't put a foot wrong the whole time, and has a solid alibi for the night the painting was stolen. There are no irregularities in his bank accounts or phone records. He was fixing the roof seven weeks ago, and says there was no sign of the exit onto the roof then. The firm employing James Carr as an electrician says he had an impeccable record and they checked his references. He demonstrated his ability as an electrician before the hired him, and then quit two weeks ago and hasn't been seen since."

"When did he do the lighting?" Neal asked, glad for the distraction from the computer screen.

"Three weeks ago," Diana said triumphantly.

"Can they identify him if they see him again?" Peter asked.

"Absolutely," Diana replied.

Peter finally stood up from the seat at the computer and collected the list of names and addresses from the printer. "Let's go," he said.

XXX

Steven Paul let Sam and Dean into the prison just as the prisoners were being taken to the mess hall for lunch. Knowing the FBI was after them again made the prison seem darker and colder than last time, and Sam couldn't wait to get out of there.

The man Steven brought to talk to them was small and dapper and visibly trembled when they pretended to work for the mob. Sam didn't really know anything about the mob except what he'd read in books, and Dean was apparently channelling The Godfather, but it seemed to work.

The guy sang like a canary.

Sam had always wanted to use that expression.

XXXX


	10. Chapter 10

There were a surprising number of people in New York with fish for last names. Peter and Neal had narrowed the list down to seven before they went to talk to them. Well, mostly it had been Peter. Neal had just sat there and drummed his fingers and wriggled like a five-year-old and made annoying little comments when he noticed a mistake. Peter had been tempted to skip the background checks on some of them just to stop Neal jiggling impatiently. He didn't though, because he was a responsible FBI agent who didn't cut corners. Unlike some people.

They were just heading out to talk to the men on the list when the agent who'd been doing the background check on Justin Case hurried up, handing Peter a print out of the man's file. No arrests, but his Peter had arrested his wife for art fraud, and there was a picture they could compare to their fish-list.

Neal had been reading over Peter's shoulder. "Maybe Dean Winchester was right about the grudge," he said.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Peter reminded him, steering the consultant out the door.

The first three on the list were busts. The fourth was a young guy called Jerry Carp who lived in a squalid apartment and was probably on drugs, but wasn't Justin Case.

Peter knew they were onto something when they reached the building where the fifth person on the list (the second Jerry Carp) lived. It was an expensive high rise, very modern, with gleaming windows and a doorman who did his job properly. It looked like exactly the kind of place a con-man/art thief would live. Especially since the second Jerry Carp lived in the penthouse.

Peter flashed his badge at the doorman and asked him not to call up. A guy like this was slippery. Give him a minute's warning and he'd disappear into the night. Or in this case the late morning heat. The elevator ride to the top floor was faster and smoother than the one in the federal building.

The man who answered the door was friendly and pleasant and wholly unhelpful. He looked to be in his late thirties, with either an excellent dye job or naturally dark brown hair. His eyes were blue, but Peter suspected if he looked closely he'd see coloured contacts. He was small and wiry, not unlike a slightly less handsome version of Neal. Peter mentally compared him to the ten-year-old photograph of the blonde Justin Case and decided it could be him. Faces often changed substantially when people were in their thirties, and these days hair colour was nothing to go on. Behind him, Peter caught a glimpse of a clean room with white walls and expensive-looking art.

Peter showed the second Jerry Carp his badge. "Peter Burke, FBI. We'd like to ask you a few questions about a recent art theft."

The second Jerry Carp surreptitiously stepped to the left to block the doorway. "I'm afraid I'm just on my way out."

"It will just take a few minutes. May we come in?"

"I'm sorry, I really don't have time right now. Why don't you come back later?" The man's pleasant tone didn't waver. It reminded him of someone. He glanced at Neal, who was smiling back at the second Jerry Carp just as pleasantly. Oh. Peter's feeling that the guy was hiding something grew.

"You're right," Peter told him evenly, "We could come back later. But it's amazing what someone can hide in a few hours, and the less willing you are to help us, the more suspicious you look."

"You seem to have me confused with someone else," the man said, "You'll excuse me if I don't let someone who may or may not be an FBI agent into my apartment." He started to close the door.

"One last question before I go to request a warrant. Are you Justin Case?"

Not even a flicker.

The door was nearly closed when Neal stepped forward. He had that big smile on his face, the one he got when he was pleased with himself. "Is that a Raphael on your wall? I could have sworn that belonged to the Met..."

XXX

Dean breathed a sigh of relief when Steven Paul let them out of the prison gates undetected. A few years ago he would have liked the rush of taking the risk. Hell, he'd even quite enjoyed the case in the county jail. But he was younger and stupider then, and he'd had a guaranteed escape. A couple of days in a county jail were a whole different story to life in federal prison, and now Dean knew how well he coped with staying in one place for a long time. Not well.

The fence they'd interviewed in the prison had been all too eager to give up his colleague in return for protection from the mob. They hadn't even had to actually threaten him, which was kind of a disappointment because pretending to be a mob enforcer was fun, and cowards who gave up their friends to save themselves pissed Dean off. The guy had given them Justin Case's new name and a couple of possible places to find him. Apparently Case was living the good life off the profits of his thefts and was replacing his dead wife with penthouse apartments and vague references to revenge against the fed who'd had her arrested.

The first place they looked was a sparsely furnished apartment he used as a safe house. All it had was a supply of food, a table and chairs, a bed, a few pieces of ugly pottery, and a wall with a line of photographs pinned up on it. All but the last were smeared with blood.

"Well, that's disgusting," Dean said, peering closely at the first in the line.

"He's not here," his brother said, coming back from the next room. "There's no altar either, but I did find a whole supply of these in the cupboard." He held up a black wax candle.

Dean nodded. "These are all the people who've been reported to own the painting, and a couple I don't recognise. They're all crossed out in blood except the one of the FBI agent."

Sam continued. "Believe it or not, that's not the gross bit. Come and see what else I found in the cupboard."

Dean followed him into a dark room with blackout shades on the single tiny window. Sam strode across to a closet door and pulled it open. At eye level sat rows of thick black candles, unused. On the shelf beneath them was a line of six tiny, intricately patterned glass bottles, each three-quarters filled with a dark liquid.

"Is that what I think it is?" Dean shuddered, hoping it was just his eyes playing tricks on him in the dark.

"Oh yeah," said Sam. "That's blood. And there's a bottle missing."

"How do you know?" He certainly couldn't tell from the dust marks. Every surface in the place was scrubbed creepily clean.

"There are seven photos on the wall in there. We have to find this guy now."

They left everything as it was and secured the door they had kicked in as well as they could when they left. Wouldn't want some kid getting in and finding those bottles.

The next place on the list turned out to be a big apartment building with proper security and windows that didn't open. They lurked on the sidewalk and tried to look like they belonged while they came up with a plan to get in. Dean could feel the security guard's eyes on him. He pushed his sunglasses up his nose and didn't let his hand twitch toward his gun. Elderly ladies with rat-like dogs swarmed in and out of the building, mixing with younger men and women with expensive suits and briefcases.

"I feel dirty," Sam said.

There was no way into the building. The security guard was sure to have their wanted posters now, especially since Agent Burke knew they were still investigating. They would have to wait for the guy to come out.

Dean kept an eye on the door from a bookstore across the street while Sam waited in a little alleyway beside the apartment building where he had a good view of the street. Sam had wanted the bookstore position, but Dean overruled him on the grounds that Sam would be distracted by the books. And Dean was totally not going to use the time to read the new Jack Reacher.

Reacher had just knocked out the first two bad guys when Dean's phone buzzed in his pocket. He looked up and groaned. Justin Case was on his way out, all right, but it was in handcuffs, accompanied by Peter Burke and a familiar figure with an old fashioned hat and a tie pin that glinted in the sun.

Dean waited until they were out of sight and jogged back across the road to Sam.

"We have to get into the FBI," he said.

XXX

Cas glared at the psychiatrist who sat across from him. She was middle aged and plump and apparently thought him extremely stupid. She had been asking him patronising questions all morning, making little noises in her throat and writing things on a pad of paper. Now she was showing him little cards with inkblots on them and trying to get him to see things in the pictures. Mostly Cas just saw blots of ink.

He glanced through the glass wall. The bustle had slowed considerably. Peter Burke had left earlier along with the consultant who was not a witch after all, and now almost everyone was sitting in front of computers.

The psychiatrist gently but firmly reminded him to look at the card in front of him. "Only a few more," she told him, "The violent crimes unit will be coming to take custody of you in a few moments, and I need to give them my judgement on whether you are competent to stand trial."

"Where did Agent Burke go?" Cas asked.

"He's investigating another case. Because you can no longer help him, he's turning you over to the violent crimes unit, who are in charge of the investigation into the Winchesters. Do you understand that?"

"I'm not retarded." It was a phrase he'd never used before, but he'd heard it in a movie and felt it served his purpose.

"Hmm..." The grey-haired woman made a noise in the back of her throat and wrote something on her pad.

"But _where_ did he go?" Cas asked again. He was getting a little concerned. He hadn't exactly liked either man, but they had seemed tenacious, and if they were continuing their investigation into the painting one or both would certainly be killed. They had showed no sign of heeding the warning he had given them that morning.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you that, Mr Novak," the psychiatrist answered, "Now, what is the first thing you think of when you see this picture?"

"Angel wings burnt into the ground," Cas said, "Have they gone after the witch?"

The psychiatrist wouldn't tell him. Cas took that as a yes. The agent had paid no attention to the warning Cas had given him, and was continuing to investigate. Sooner or later, the spirit in the painting would kill someone. Even if Dean and Sam were continuing their investigation, they couldn't risk breaking into the FBI. The best they could manage was to stop the witch in burn the corpse of the spirit attached to the painting. But there was real blood in the painting, and the only way to destroy the spirit was to salt and burn the painting. It was up to Cas. He couldn't sit around wallowing in the emptiness of human existence and the loss of his friends' trust any longer. It was time for him to fix things, to begin to make up for what he had done, and he would start with saving these people. It was up to him to destroy the painting or at the very least keep everyone out of the room it was being kept in.

When the psychiatrist turned him over to Violent Crimes fifteen minutes later, he waited until they were distracted by the psychiatrist's entirely mistaken conclusions about his mental state. He punched the man holding him hard in the stomach, grabbed his gun and ran, ignoring the shouts that echoed around him.

"Freeze or I'll shoot!" seemed to be a common theme.

XXX


	11. Chapter 11

Neal and Peter were just marching Justin Case off the elevator when all the commotion started. Peter had the thief handcuffed and was walking him to the interrogation room with a hand on his arm. They could see the psychiatrist handing Jimmy Novak over to the violent crimes unit, and the agent in charge of escorting Novak looking away, distracted by the psychiatrist. Novak moved with a sudden speed before Neal even had a chance to shout a warning to the agent, and then the agent was on the ground and Novak had his gun. All the agents on the floor were out of their seats and aiming guns at him, but he took no notice, darting towards Neal and Peter and the door. A rookie agent fired and Neal threw himself to the side, the bullet thudding into the air conditioning unit immediately behind where he'd been standing. When he rolled to his feet, Novak was gone, pursued by a crowd of agents. Peter, who'd thrown himself in the opposite direction, had lost his grip on the prisoner.

Neal inwardly cursed the FBI for refusing to teach him how to fight as he dashed to his partner's aid. Case was on top of Peter, struggling to get the chain of his handcuffs around the agent's neck. Peter was holding his own reasonably well considering he was face down on the floor. For all Peter gave off the nice guy image, he could pull out the moves when he needed them. Neal grabbed the guy's arms to try to haul him off, but it was hard going. Neal was stronger than he looked and Case was a small man, but he'd lost his cool completely and was fighting with surprising strength. Neal had always heard that crazy people had the strength of ten men, but he hadn't thought it could actually be true.

"Freeze or I'll shoot, Case," Neal heard an agent say from above him.

Case paid no attention. Maybe it was because he knew they wouldn't shoot him while he was on Peter – there was too much chance of missing and killing their colleague – but Neal thought it was probably just that he was too far gone, too lost in his rage to notice anything else.

"You killed her!" Case screamed, the words almost unintelligible through the crazed tone. He struggled to get the chain around Peter's neck. Neal hauled him backwards again, and was thrown aside by his flailing leg as he surged back towards Peter.

Neal picked himself up, running his ribs where he'd hit a desk, and prepared to wade in again, but now Jones and two other agents had Case in their grasp, and were just succeeding in holding him back while Peter rolled over. Case partially slipped from the control of the agents, throwing himself at Peter once more, his eyes wide, mouth snarling, screaming wordlessly in that horrific voice. Peter was ready for him this time, though, bringing his knee up hard into the man's groin. Case barely even seemed to notice, so determined was he to cause Peter pain, but it gave Peter a second to roll him over and get him on the ground. Four agents rushed in to hold him down, one on each limb, and he still struggled until an agent finally arrived with the sedative the violent crimes unit kept for emergencies and jabbed the needle into his arm.

There was quiet as the agents recovered their breath. Neal became faintly aware of gunfire in another part of the building.

"Are you alright?" He asked Peter once the prisoner was securely cuffed in the interrogation room, the sedative keeping him docile.

"I'm fine," Peter reassured him, but Neal could see his hand moving to rub his neck.

"Why did he freak out like that? I don't understand."

"He kept yelling that I'd killed someone. I think he blames me for his wife's death."

"But you didn't kill her! And he just went crazy at you!" Neal exclaimed. Now that the adrenalin was leaving, he could feel his hands shaking again, just a little. He'd been really scared for Peter.

"Grief makes people do crazy things, Neal. I shouldn't have to remind you that."

Neal nodded. He didn't like remembering all the things his grief over Kate had driven him to. But he still felt Peter was being altogether too calm about the whole thing.

They didn't have time to discuss it further, because Diana ran in at that point to talk to Peter. "We've got a problem," she said, "Novak's barricaded himself in the evidence lock-up. Won't even consider giving himself up until he talks to Agent Burke."

XXX

Cas piled boxes in front of the door, ignoring the yells from the other side. The agents had been quick in pursuit of him, and several shots had been fired and gone wide, but he'd found that people were reluctant to shoot when there was a possibility of hitting someone other than him, and had weaved his way through the agents, throwing off the few that laid hands on him. Even human, he could still make use of the moves that had served him well in the angelic wars, although now they had a lot less strength behind them. He'd run with a single-minded determination to reach the evidence lock-up he'd seen on the way in. Finally, he'd made it there. The guard on the door had hesitated before firing, and Cas had used that moment to knock him out. Now he was inside, and the door was barricaded well enough to give him time to find and destroy the painting. That was all he needed.

Outside, a woman's voice, husky even when shouting demanded he give himself up. "There's no way out," she told him. But that was okay. He didn't need a way out.

"I want to speak to Agent Burke," he said, just to slow down the battering of the door.

There was a vast array of items covering the shelves of the room, from gold watches to weapons to foodstuffs. In a surprising display of good fortune, several bags of salt sat in a back corner, numbered and catalogued. Cas could not imagine what crime they could have been seized as evidence in, but was very relieved as he had realised, upon locking himself in the room, that he had neglected to formulate a plan for the actual destruction of the painting.

The battering on the door was growing more insistent. The agents had obviously found something heavy to ram against the door. It was rattling on its hinges, the pile of boxes behind it trembling slightly. Cas threw more stuff on the pile.

The painting was hanging on the wall, presumably to prevent damage. It was in a dark corner alongside a number of other canvases, none of which appeared familiar to Cas. The really valuable artwork was probably kept in another room. He took _Rivers in Flood _down, placing it in the most open space he could find within the crowded room. He dragged the bags of salt over to it. He felt the hairs on his arms stand on end, and pulled his coat tighter around himself in the sudden chill. Leaving them there, he went in search of a lighter and some kind of accelerant.

Something was happening outside. He could hear confusion, and a sudden ceasing of the efforts to force the door open. The air in the evidence room was frigid, his breath freezing as it left him. There was a strange knocking from above him. He ignored it, redoubling his efforts to find what he needed.

At last, he found a gold-plated lighter that worked and a several bottles of whisky that would have to do for an accelerant. As he rushed across the room to use them, two things happened. The first was that the knocking in the wall culminated in a loud crash and an avalanche as someone fell out of the emergency fire exit in the ceiling. The second was that the door opened.

XXX

When he saw the fed marching the witch off to the FBI building, Dean knew they had no time to waste. They had to get in there now.

"What did you do with those hex bags? We'll go in with those, get Cas, then two of us can hold the feds off while the other one burns the paintings," he said.

"Dude, you know the hex bags don't actually make us invisible, right? Do you know how many feds are in that building?"

Okay, so it wasn't a great plan, but they were on a time limit here. "Tell you what," he said, "If you think of a better plan by the time we get to the federal building, I'm all ears."

Sam frowned; apparently too busy trying to come up with a better plan to answer him.

"Besides," Dean added optimistically, "I'm sure Cas will have found a way to help us out by now. He's probably already burned it."

Sam snorted, but had the good grace not to say anything. By the time they got to the federal building he'd thought of a few improvements to Dean's plan. It was still not what you might call 'foolproof' though.

The two largest factors in their favour were the hex bags and the sudden confusion in the building that began just as they walked past the guard in the lobby. The hex bags might not make them invisible, but they did encourage people to look away or forget they had seen them. As long as they didn't move too fast or set off any metal detectors, they could probably get in okay. They'd left their guns outside, along with knives and any other metal that could set off an alarm. Dean felt naked and vulnerable, and his heart continued to beat in double-time even after he'd successfully swiped someone's ID card from their waist without attracting attention. He swiped it to give himself and Sam access to the elevator, pressing the button to take them to the floor where Peter Burke's White Collar Crimes division was located.

It was chaos when they got off the elevator. Just around the corner, a group of agents was swinging a heavy black battering ram against a thick metal door, while a young man did some kind of first aid on some kind of guard who was lying unconscious on the floor. Another group of agents stood behind those with the battering ram, wearing bulletproof vests. They had their guns out and were shouting for Mr Novak to give himself up.

Dean grinned and nudged his brother as they sidled past along the wall. That was his Cas, alright. The old one, from before all the crap.

In the main office section of the floor, the majority of the occupants were occupied in restraining and sedating an extremely violent man. Agent Burke and the man who wasn't a witch were among them. Burke had obviously just been attacked. Not-a-witch seemed surprisingly concerned. There was a young woman who was obviously not a field agent lurking off to the side, quietly freaking out. Dean hated to do it, he really did. The poor girl had probably joined the White Collar division to avoid the violence of the other units. But it was Cas, and there were lives at stake, and it wasn't like he would actually hurt her, so he did it anyway. Stepping quietly up behind her, he grabbed a pen and held it to her throat, point pressing against her jugular.

"I need to get into the evidence room," he said.

She elbowed him in the stomach, following it up with a hard kick to the inside of the knee.

She told him in the end, though, because while he was hopping around clutching his knee Sam had come up with a gun from somewhere.

"You go," Sam said, "I'll distract them."

Dean mumbled an apology as he ran from the room, but the woman had already forgotten him. Sam was lurking against the wall, watching. Dean passed the woman who'd followed him and Cas from the cafe in the hallway. He ran up the stairs to the next floor, which was set out very similarly to the floor beneath it. It had a storage room full of files instead of an evidence lock-up, and the emergency exit for the lock-up underneath was a trapdoor in the floor in the back left corner. He could hear Cas throwing things in the room below. He banged on the door, which was surprisingly difficult to open considering it was a fire exit. Cas didn't respond.

Finally, Dean wrenched the handle open and shoved the door down with all his might. It gave without warning and his momentum sent him tumbling through, bringing shelves down with him in an enormous heap. He groaned as he hit the floor, winded. He forced himself up on his elbows. Across the room, Cas was frozen in the middle of pouring salt on the painting, staring at him.

"Hey Cas," he said.

The pile of boxes acting as a barricade toppled over as the door opened.

XXX


	12. Chapter 12

Peter pushed open the door, shoving hard against the barricade until it gave. The pile of boxes prevented the door opening fully, so only a narrow slice of the room was visible to him. There was no sign of Novak in his line of sight. He held his gun ready, motioning to his back-up to stay out of sight for the moment.

"Jimmy?" he called, "This is Agent Burke. You asked to speak with me. Well, now I'm here. I'm going to come in now, but I want you to put down your weapon first." He inched the door open a bit further.

There was no reply. And then footsteps, towards the back of the room on the side he couldn't see. The sound of liquid glugging out of a bottle and splashing on a hard surface.

"Jimmy? I'm prepared to talk. I just need you to stop what you're doing and hand over your weapon."

"My name is Castiel," Novak growled.

"Castiel, then. Just keep calm and nobody will get hurt." He edged the door open further, and then froze in shock. Someone in the evidence room was laughing. It wasn't Jimmy Novak. It wasn't insane, maniacal laughter, either. Just a quiet little chuckle as though it was a normal conversation and he'd said something funny. "Is there someone with you, Castiel?" Peter peered around the door and saw him.

Dean Winchester grinned at him from where he was standing in a mountain of fallen evidence. "Peter," he said, and then looked over Peter's shoulder. "What happened to distracting them?"

Peter glanced behind him. Sam Winchester was looming there, enormous and armed, and how had Peter not noticed him arrive? How had no-one noticed?

Peter turned back to Dean. "Dean," he said, "This isn't going to end well for you. You have the advantage on me here, but even if you kill me, you won't escape. There are hundreds of agents in the building."

Dean chuckled again, and to Peter's ears it was menacing. "We're not here to kill anyone, we're here to save your ass. You have no idea what you're messing with."

Peter stepped into the room, hands in the air. He could feel Sam Winchester behind him, filling his personal space.

"Surrender your weapons," he said.

Dean began to pick his way through the heap of stuff surrounding him, moving away from Peter, over to the corner where Jimmy Novak was in the process of pouring salt from a sack onto _Rivers in Flood_. Peter could see empty whisky bottles on the floor around him, and the strong smell of alcohol permeated the air.

"Do you feel how cold it is?" Dean asked conversationally. Peter hadn't noticed, actually, pumped as he was with adrenalin. Now, he did, though. There was ice forming on the metal shelves and his hand was cramping up around his gun. He stepped forward, immediately noticing the absence of Sam's body heat behind him.

Dean continued: "That's the sign of a spirit. It's bound to the painting, and it's angry. It's going to manifest any second, and it's not going to stop until you're dead, so you need to shut up and let us do our job." The conversational tone was gone now, replaced by urgency and seriousness.

Peter would be really concerned about the craziness of Dean's statement, if he wasn't so freaking cold. He thought his hand might be freezing to his gun. It was really starting to hurt. The lighter in Jimmy Novak's hand sparked, a flame flickering into existence.

There was a great crash as the door behind Peter was flung open fully, sending boxes tumbling out of the way. Sam Winchester spun to aim his gun at the intruders, and Peter spun with him, bringing his shivering hand down on the pressure points in Sam's wrist, forcing his finger away from the trigger.

"Hands in the air!" Jones ordered. He was at the front of a formation of heavily armed agents. He took a step towards Peter and Sam and then shouted: "Holy Christ! Move!"

The next thing Peter knew, he was on the floor, crushed under Sam, as a giant fireball was flashing across the ceiling.

"Holy crap, Cas," he could faintly hear Dean Winchester saying, "What did you put on that?"

Peter's head had thudded hard against something as Sam tackled him out of the way of the flames. He could feel blood trickling down the back of his head, and everything got a little confusing. The weight of Sam released him but there seemed to be two of everything, and the room filled with thick black smoke. Someone was dragging him out of the room when he lost consciousness, letting the blackness take over.

When he woke up, he was in a hospital bed with El and Neal looking down at him, both of them berating him for being a stupid hero.

XXX

Dean struggled out from under Cas as the fireball spread across the ceiling. Cas had shoved him out of the way when he'd seen the fire take off, and while Dean was grateful, he was pretty sure he had a broken rib and kind of felt like a damsel in a romance novel. "Holy crap, Cas," he said, "What did you put on that?"

"I was not sure how much alcohol to use," Cas informed him matter-of-factly, "I think there may also have been some kind of accelerant already present in the painting."

"At least we can be pretty sure it's destroyed now," Dean said, reeling back from the heat. "Where's Sam? We need to leave."

Sam found them a moment later, and gave them a boost up through the fire exit. It took both Dean and Cas together to haul Sam's giant, muscle-bound body up through the hole, but they got him up eventually, and now only had the problem of getting out of the building.

"I left him a note about the safe house," Sam told them as they made their way to the stairwell, winding through people distracted by the fire and the hex bags, "It should be safe for him to destroy the blood now that the painting's destroyed."

"Did anyone come up with an escape plan?" Cas asked. Ungrateful bastard. Dean smiled a little at the businesslike tone and look of purpose on the ex-angel's face. It was good to have him back.

"Not so much," he said.

"At least we'll die together," Sam said.

They were at the ground floor and Dean's legs were aching from all the stairs when someone walked directly into Sam. It was a middle aged man in a suit who looked exactly like every other fed in the building. He looked at them closely, and said: "Sam and Dean Winchester? Castiel? Bobby Singer sent me. I'm here to get you out, but I had a hell of a job finding you. Come with me."

"How did Bobby know where we were?" Dean asked the guy as he led them down a floor to the basement and swiped his security clearance to get them out of the parking garage.

"Bobby knows everything," the man said, turning to go back up the stairs, "Plus it was all over the news that the feds had Jimmy Novak."

"Wait," called Sam, "Who are you?"

"Bobby helped me out once." The man disappeared through the door at the top of the stairs.

"Let's go," said Dean, inclining his head towards the pavement.

Five minutes later, they were down a side street, and Dean was behind the wheel of a freshly hotwired car, scrolling through the IPod plugged into the stereo for the song he wanted. When it came blasting out of the speakers, he put the car into gear and pulled out. His brother was beside him and his best friend was in the backseat, singed trench coat and all, and they were headed back to the Impala, the open road and freedom.

Sam cocked an eyebrow at the IPod. "Seriously, Dean?"

Dean grinned, reaching over and turning up the volume. "Cos tramps like us, baby we were born to run!" He sang.

XXX

Neal finished re-working Peter's birthday painting in the two days Peter was in the hospital. It upset him much more than he liked to admit when Peter got hurt, and it was good to be able to do something with his hands while he waited for Peter to recover. He still had to go to work, but without Peter all he got to do was go through records in boring embezzlement cases, and it wasn't a very good distraction. Especially since other people were still following up on Justin Case.

On Saturday night, he took the painting over to Peter and El's. Sara came with him, beautifully dressed and feisty as always. Jones and Diana were already there, along with Christy and the date that Jones had brought.

Peter was in good humour, bored with having to take time off work, and loved the painting. As they all sat down for dinner, the atmosphere was friendly and cheerful. Neal felt warm inside as he looked around the room.

They were part way through dinner, just past the stage of complimenting the meal, when Sara could no longer contain her curiosity.

"So what happened with the _Rivers in Flood_ case?" She asked, "I heard you finally got Justin Case."

"Oh, we did," Peter said.

"Oh no," said Diana, "We did." She indicated herself and Jones. "You guys just brought him in. We're the ones that got the confession."

Jones chimed in. "Six counts of art theft, seventeen of using false documents – oh, and not to mention six murder charges and multiple aggravated assaults."

"We went to the apartment at the address Sam Winchester slipped into Peter's pocket," Diana continued, "This guy was bad news..."

Peter cleared his throat, making a tiny gesture towards Elizabeth, who was looking tense. She didn't like hearing about psychopaths almost murdering her husband.

Neal changed the subject. "So, they finally fixed the air conditioning unit yesterday. Now we can work on our floor in less than nine layers."

"Did they work out what the problem was?" El asked, smiling at him.

"There was some physical damage to the thermostat in the central unit for the floor. It just made it go haywire," he replied. He didn't tell her the physical damage had been caused by a bullet. He wasn't an idiot.

The rest of the meal passed in pleasant uneventfulness, and was followed up by a delightful crème brulee, if Neal did say so himself.

Afterwards, as Diana and Christy were doing the dishes (as part of their birthday present for Peter), and the others were deep in discussion about the charity event El was planning, Neal took the opportunity to talk to Peter out on the patio.

"Why aren't we chasing the Winchesters?" He asked. "They kidnapped me; they nearly killed you. We need to find them!"

"That's a job for Violent Crimes. They're out of my jurisdiction."

"But-"

"No buts," said Peter, "If agents start going after anyone who tries to hurt them it'll turn into anarchy and revenge quests. We leave it to Violent Crimes, and they'll get them. If they come back on the radar for another fraud, we will take them down. In the meantime, we do our jobs."

Neal was quiet for a moment, looking out at the darkness. "You know, in the scheme of things, I'm really not that bad."

"No," said Peter beside him, "You're not."

**The End**

**A/N: And it's over! Thanks for reading and reviewing. I love writing these and really appreciate your support. Next up: Castle.**


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